


The Gates of Dawn

by DaltonG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fawnlock, Hurt/Comfort, Kidlock, Libraries, M/M, but no smut with the kidlock, rut happens, teen sexuality, the wind in the willows - Freeform, trigger warning: dead bodies, trigger warning: mortuary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaltonG/pseuds/DaltonG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fawnlock saga.</p><p>[ON HIATUS WHILE I'M SICK] (not abandoned)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight-year-old Johnny is certain that Pan must be real, and he sets out to find him.

_Lest the awe should dwell_  
And turn your frolic to fret  
You shall look on my power at the helping hour  
But then you shall forget! 

_Lest limbs be reddened and rent_  
I spring the trap that is set  
As I loose the snare you may glimpse me there  
For surely you shall forget! 

_Helper and healer, I cheer_  
Small waifs in the woodland wet  
Strays I find in it, wounds I bind in it  
Bidding them all forget! 

\- K. Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

* * *

“‘But what do the words mean?’ asked the wondering Mole.

‘That I do not know,’ said the Rat simply. ‘I passed them onto you as they reached me. Ah! Now they return again, and this time full and clear! This time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing, simple--passionate--perfect--’

‘Well, let’s have it then,’ said the Mole, after he had waited patiently for a few minutes, half dozing in the hot sun.

But no answer came. He looked, and understood the silence. With a smile of much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look still lingering there, the weary Rat was fast asleep.”

Johnny’s mother closed the book.

“End of the chapter, lovey. You know what that means.”

“Yeah,” Johnny sighed as he snuggled down further between the soft sheets of his bed. His mother bent to kiss him on the forehead and reached for the lamp chain.

“But Mum? Why did they have to forget?”

“Because sometimes longing is too painful...as Mr Grahame said, the little animals needed to go back to their lives and be happy.”

She pulled the chain and the room darkened. The light from the hall spilled in through the door and splashed a lumpy yellowish rectangle over Johnny’s covers.

“Mum? Who was he?”

“Some people think he was Pan, a woodland demigod. Pan is a mythical creature that plays pipes. You remember those pipes they played at the festival last month?”

“Yeah, those were pretty.”

“Those are called pan pipes, after Pan himself.”

“Pan is real, right, Mum?”

Johnny’s mother continually tried to find a balance between explaining the world clearly and truthfully, albeit in terms a child could grasp, and giving her son room to imagine and dream and not grow up too quickly. Harry was a lost cause; from the start she had shunned her innocence despite her mother’s best efforts, flinging it from her impatiently like so much useless amniotic sac. Johnny, however, still had the trusting heart of a child at age eight and she wanted to protect that as long as she could.

“I think Pan is more of a feeling than a real person. You know how we talked about Father Christmas being the embodiment of love? I think Pan is a bit like that...maybe not so much an actual being but still real whenever anyone takes care of someone else, or when you feel the breeze on your face in early Spring and you can almost smell the flowers growing.”

Johnny thought for a few moments in the dusk of his nighttime bedroom.

“No, I think he’s real, Mum. I think people just forgot how to see him, like he did to Mole and Rat.”

“Maybe so, honey. Maybe so.” Johnny’s mother stroked the fringe back from his forehead, feeling her throat tighten at the thought of how short childhood was. 

“Good night, dear heart.”

“‘Night, Mum.”

* * *

_14 May 1982_

Johnny knew how to be prepared. His family had gone on a few camping trips, though they hadn’t done for a while now that Harry was such a prat. He had packed two jam sandwiches, an apple, a little bottle of juice and a bag of crisps into his backpack. He added the bird watching binoculars his gram had gotten him for his birthday and his recorder from school. He figured if he played the recorder, it might lure a pipe player out of hiding. He thought about including a jumper--they usually had jumpers when they went camping--but it was so very hot in mid-July that he couldn’t imagine needing it. He added the compass that he had snatched from the kitchen drawer, so he wouldn’t lose his way; he planned to travel as far as he had to, which might be very far indeed. At the last minute, he grabbed his new Silver Surfer comic book and pushed it in, then zipped everything up securely.

“Bye Mum, I’m going exploring!” he called as he stopped at the back doorway.

“Be home for dinner,” she called back.

Johnny stepped out into the heat of his back garden. He glanced around at the dispiriting sight of tired brown grass, a rusted swingset, a kiddy pool full of green murky water, and various balls scattered about. He hadn’t come outside much this summer due to the heat, and the garden was looking a bit neglected. Some tomato plants he had installed near the house in the enthusiasm of May had fallen over, limp on the ground from lack of watering, though he did see one small squashed fruit on one of the stems. He made a face.

Then he straightened his small shoulders, adjusted the straps of his pack, and strode forward to the woods behind the house.

The Watsons lived on the edge of the New Forest National Park. Johnny often ventured a few meters in to play cars or soldiers in the pine needles and fallen leaves, and Harry went in at night, which led to great screaming rows with his mum. He wasn’t sure what she got up to that made his mum so angry, but he had found broken bottles and cigarette butts in a bit of a clearing once, so he figured that was somehow related.

This time, though, Johnny was going on a journey. With a mission. He was going to find Pan and he was certain that he would be able to remember, unlike the silly animals in the book.

At first, as he walked, he looked up at the sunlight playing hide and seek with the tall trees, listening to the bird song all around, noting how there were no paths and feeling like the first human to ever enter this forest. The summer’s heat was tamed by the shade, and a cool breeze rustled the leaves and fanned his fringe. As he made his way deeper, he was absolutely certain that he was the first human to explore this area, and he felt proud.

A screech happened loudly to his left and he jumped, belatedly recognizing it as a hawk, similar to ones his dad had pointed out on camping trips. As his heart hammered, he felt a bit foolish, but just to be sure, he turned around to look behind him and reassure himself with a glimpse of his house.

The house was nowhere to be seen.

In fact, as hard as Johnny looked, he could only see forest in any direction. He listened and heard only sounds of the woods: no cars, no lawnmowers, no one talking. After a few minutes he realized he didn’t even hear planes flying overhead. He shivered and the hair on the back of his neck rose as a cloud passed over the sun, and suddenly the forest seemed really quite close and dark. He set down his pack and dug in it for the compass, rallying a bit as he saw the bright colors on the front of his Silver Surfer comic book and remembered that this was just a walk, that people existed and were likely close by, and that the world hadn’t suddenly shifted.

He pulled out the compass and studied it. He needed to make the needle point to the N, right? He turned around, holding the compass out in front of him, until the needle wobbled around near the big, fancy N. It was hard to get it to stay on the N, but eventually he found just the right position and held his breath and the needle settled.

Great! The compass needle was on the N.

Now what?

He looked in front of him and all he saw were trees, trees that looked very similar to all the trees around the rest of him. What did it mean that the needle was on the N? North? But what good did that do him? 

He remembered something Harry had said about moss growing on trees, so he walked up to a tree and circled it, looking for moss. He found none. Then he realized he didn’t know what it would mean even if he found it.

He began to tremble. In turning around to orient the compass, he had lost any idea of which direction he had come from.

Just then the sun hid behind clouds again, and he heard a rumble of thunder. He was well and truly lost! And there was about to be a storm! What was he to do?

He grabbed a strap of his pack, dropping the compass in his fright, and began to run, zigging and zagging through the trees in a panic. He ran as fast as he could as the sounds of thunder came closer together, until his breath was too short and he had to stop. He leaned his hands on his knees, panting, and the first drops began to fall. He looked up in dismay.

The storm let loose. 

Lightning flashed and thunder growled much more loudly than he’d ever noticed at home. Johnny’s heart was pounding. He crouched at the base of a tree, clutching his backpack to him, the tears streaming down his cheeks almost indistinguishable from the downpour. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for what must surely be the end of him.

A hand grabbed his. He opened his eyes and in a stark white flash of lightning he saw a creature towering above him, with giant antlers and strange markings. It had hold on his wrist and he couldn’t wrench his hand away. Johnny began to wail, and the creature pulled at him hard enough that he was lifted onto his feet. Thunder boomed nearby and the creature grabbed his pack--his pack!--and began dragging him away. They weren’t a few meters from the tree Johnny had been leaning on when there was another flash of white and a tremendous CRACK and a whiff of ozone. Johnny looked back to see the tree where he had been sitting smoking, breaking into two with a terrifying groan. Johnny's wailing became rhythmic, pulsing with his breath.

“Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!”

He was tugged along swiftly, stumbling over roots and over branches brought down by the storm. He didn’t see more than slashing rain and dark branches until he found himself abruptly inside the entrance to a little cave.

Johnny was breathing hard. He was out of the rain. The creature was watching him, still holding tight to his wrist. It dropped his backpack down on the floor of the cave, and then it moved until it was but a few inches in front of him, gazing at him with huge green eyes.

“Where are we? Why did you bring me here?”

The creature startled and stepped back a bit at the words before leaning over and sniffing Johnny’s neck, then his armpits.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Hay,” the creature said. “Hay.”

“Yeah, hey, who are you and what are you doing?” Johnny forgot for a moment about the horrible storm and being lost as he stared at the being in front of him. Its antlers weren’t nearly as huge as they had seemed when he saw them in that first flash of lightning. It wasn’t even as tall as Johnny, though it was certainly stronger; he was going to have bruises from that grip. It had dark curls of hair all around its antler bases, and it seemed to have very short fur on a lot of its body, and the fur had unusual brown markings the likes of which Johnny had never seen.

And oh, _it_ was actually a _him_ , Johnny noticed, a small but unmistakable organ under a coating of thicker fur that made it clear that this was a boy of some sort. A boy of the wild. A _deer_ boy. A mythical creature…

“Hey, are you Pan?”

“Pahn,” the boy repeated.

“Yeah, Pan, you know, the demi, uh, demi...the guy who plays that pipe thing.”

“Pahn. Pahn!” Suddenly the deer boy became excited, his eyes widening. He grabbed Johnny’s other wrist and held it painfully tight and babbled some incomprehensible sounds. Then he waved to the entrance of the cave, unmindful of Johnny’s hand still in his grasp. When he finished, he looked at Johnny expectantly.

“Uh...I don’t know what you just said, but I don’t think we should go back out there. It’s pretty scary out there.”

The deer boy caught the negative tone of Johnny’s words and his face fell.

“Pahn,” he said mournfully.

“Yeah, okay, Pan. I guess you’re Pan. And I’m Johnny, Johnny Watson. And you can stop grabbing me now, I’m not going anywhere.”

The deer boy looked down as Johnny wiggled his wrists, and slowly he unclasped one but kept a firm grip on the other. Johnny sighed.

“Fine, you make sure I stay here in this dry cave when it’s all thundery and wet out there.” A thought occurred, and Johnny peered back into the cave. This clearly wasn't the deer boy's home; there was nothing here but a hard dirt floor. “Although this cave might be pretty scary too...there aren’t any bats in here, are there?”

The deer boy completely ignored Johnny and sat down, pulling Johnny down with him by the imprisoned wrist, and began to fumble at the backpack one-handed. Johnny marvelled that his hands seemed to be just the same as Johnny’s hands...four fingers and a thumb, no fur. Just normal hands.

“Here, let me get it, haven’t you ever seen a zipper before?” Johnny said as the deer boy grunted in frustration. Johnny opened the bag and pulled out the damp bag of crisps. Then he saw the soaked paper at the bottom.

“Oh, no, my comic book! It's ruined!”

The deer boy grabbed at the wet book, letting Johnny’s wrist loose in his excitement. Some of the paper ripped. The deer boy said more excited nonsense words.

“Yeah, I guess you can have that, it's pretty much done for now. I’ll have to get a new one...it’ll take me days to save up.”

The deer boy discovered the leaves of pages and began turning them, exclaiming as each page showed a different set of drawings.

“Yeah, it's pretty cool, isn't it, even if it's ruined,” Johnny allowed. “Hey, I bet you can’t read.”

“Hay,” the boy repeated absently, turning the wet pages.

“After we eat I can read them to you. Would you like that?” 

The deer boy didn’t answer. His nose was twitching; he looked up, and then he plunged his hands into the bag, lifting the apple out triumphantly.

“Yeah, that’s my--”

He ate it in three big bites, core and all.

“HEY! That was _my_ apple!”

“Hay,” the boy said happily. He began pawing at the rest of the bag’s contents.

“Okay, look. We’re going to _share_ the jam sandwiches. Okay? Share.”

“Shaaairrr.”

“Yeah. Share.” Johnny unwrapped the clingwrap from one sandwich and handed it to the deer boy. It was a bit smushed but it would still taste good. 

The boy sniffed it, then stuffed the entire thing into his mouth.

“You’re a slob, you know that?” Johnny said, taking a single bite from his own sandwich. The deer boy chewed with his mouth wide open, grinning in delight at the sweet taste.

“Ew, don’t you know to keep your mouth closed when you eat?” Johnny felt superior for knowing so many basic things that this Pan clearly didn’t. 

“Some demiwhatever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brit-picking for the first three (rated T) chapters by the wonderful [lestrades_love_den](http://lestrades-love-den.tumblr.com/); updated with her suggestions.
> 
> Now beta'd by the marvelous and patient [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/pseuds/Dammit_Clint)! Thanks luv. All mistakes are wholly mine.
> 
> As I delved into Fawnlock, I was reminded of a magical story I remember from childhood. You may want to read ["The Piper at the Gates of Dawn"](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/289/289-h/289-h.htm#link2H_4_0007) from _The Wind in the Willows_ by Kenneth Grahame as an intro to this story, though it is absolutely not required. The haunting quality of Grahame's beautiful scene is unforgettable (unless you are the hapless Mole and Rat).
> 
> A shout out to [bennyslegs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bennyslegs/pseuds/bennyslegs), the creator of Fawnlock.
> 
> Right now this is kidlock, but it is their origin story. Eventually they will grow up, and this will earn an E rating.
> 
> **Influences**  
>  I have been greatly influenced by multiple other Fawnlock stories, including [trajektoria’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria) [“The Other Boy”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/867224/chapters/1664343), [SarahCat1717’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahCat1717/pseuds/SarahCat1717) [“On the Edge with You”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1937016/chapters/4183770), and [acpadilla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acpadilla/pseuds/acpadilla) and [TheRavingRedhead’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRavingRedhead/pseuds/TheRavingRedhead) [The Hazards of Love"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/991694/chapters/1957754). Check them out!


	2. Lost in the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny has no idea how to get home.

_14 May 1982 (continued)_

After they had eaten all the food Johnny had packed, Johnny tried to read the comic book to his new friend, but the dark of the storm was turning into the true dark of night, and soon the only illumination they had was that of the lightning. The cave was pitch black, so Johnny sat on the ground facing the entrance so he wouldn’t have to think about what might be lurking in the cavernous depths. The storm, the absent sun, and the dank cave conspired to create a temperature that was altogether unhealthy when one was stuck in wet clothes.

Johnny realized he was shivering uncontrollably.

When his teeth began to chatter--my goodness, that happened in real life, he’d thought it was just something in books--he heard the deer boy move closer, and then he felt the boy’s hands all over his face. He tried to protest with a “Hey” but the shivering and chattering led to something a lot closer to “Brrrr.” The hands dropped from his face, and a few moments later he was abruptly pulled back across the dirt on his shorts-covered bum until his back was flat against a wiggly warmth. Arms wrapped around his stomach, and the deer boy made some noises that frankly sounded a little patronizing. Johnny’s shivering subsided from a constant quiver to little pulses of shudders as he warmed up, so he didn’t argue against the unusual position. 

He felt the deer boy’s chin resting on his shoulder. When the next lighting flash came, he glanced over and saw that the exotic green eyes were shut tight, and when the darkness reigned again and the thunder rolled away, he could hear soft snores next to his ear.

He listened to the rain, feeling warmer and somewhat comforted by the cuddling. The lightning came at longer intervals, and the thunder sounded further away. The pounding drops slowed to a gentler patter. Johnny shifted back to get more comfortable against his living pillow, and the deer boy snuggled his arms tighter around Johnny, sighed, and began whuffing lightly again. Johnny felt his eyes getting heavy. He thought he probably should keep watch--for what, he wasn’t sure--but he blinked...and suddenly the sun was shining into the cave, heralding a hot new summer day.

_15 May 1982_

He looked around and saw he was alone.

“Pan?” he called out, quietly at first, then with increasing alarm. “Pan? Pan! PAAAN!”

An antlered head poked around the cave entrance and emitted loud annoyed chatter, then disappeared.

“Hey!” Johnny stood up and went to see what was going on.

When he stepped outside, he tripped on an inconveniently placed rock. When he caught himself by grabbing a bush, he was rewarded with some very angry yelling. The deer boy was gesturing wildly, and he looked down to see that he’d stepped square in the middle of a rather large pile of cherry tomatoes. He looked back up to see the deer boy place both hands on his hips and continue to make loud noises, which were clearly scolding.

It looked so much like his mother griping at Harry that he began to laugh.

The deer boy stomped his foot.

This made Johnny laugh harder.

He couldn’t stop laughing, and he kind of tipped over onto the ground, squashing more of the small tomatoes, which made him laugh even more. The deer boy threw up his hands and stalked off while Johnny caught his breath. He plucked one of the undamaged tomatoes from the pile and gave it a taste. 

“Uggh!”

These were the worst cherry tomatoes he’d ever had. He looked more closely at one of the smashed ones and saw that the insides didn’t look right at all; instead of little pulpy seeds they seemed to have bigger white pips inside. They were awfully small for cherry tomatoes, too. He decided they were probably some kind of sour berry. Then he remembered his dad telling him not to eat berries in the woods without checking with him first.

Did the deer boy just poison him? Pan was supposed to be nice, gentle, helpful! Why would he poison Johnny?

He was trying to wipe off his tongue with his hands when the deer boy came back and dumped an fresh armload of the bright red fruit on the ground.

“Here, now, are you trying to kill me off? That’s not very nice!”

The other boy stared at him, then sat down and started eating some of the berries. Oh. Maybe they weren’t poisonous. Johnny tried another.

“Ew, it’s like eating a vitamin tablet.” He crossed his arms and resigned himself to starvation. The deer boy looked at him, shrugged, and kept eating. He ate all of the whole berries and started scraping up the crushed remains, licking them off his fingers.

“Fine for you, I bet berries is all you know. Yuck.” Just then Johnny’s tummy gave a rumble. “Look, Pan, you gotta help me get home. My mum ‘n da’s gonna be worried about me by now.”

The deer boy looked interested but didn’t respond.

“Me. Home. You take.” Johnny gestured broadly. The other boy watched his hands and then turned his head back to stare into Johnny’s eyes. It was kind of annoying, how this kid could stare, seemingly without blinking. 

Johnny stood up. 

“I. NEED. TO GET. _HOME_. Do you understand? Do you get it? The forest is fine for you but I’m not a deer boy, I have to live in a house and eat...eat... _non-berries_!” Johnny was speaking very loudly; maybe if he was loud enough, he could get through to this weird creature. He tried stomping his foot as the deer boy had.

The deer boy started to giggle. He got up and stomped his own foot.

“Look, this is not a game, all right? You’ve got to show me the way back home!” And Johnny couldn’t help it, he stomped again. The deer boy stomped back immediately. And giggled some more.

“Okay! You be that way! A little kid wanders into your woods and you don’t have the good manners to help him get home. That’s just fine. When I get home you better believe I’ll be telling them how _Pan_ isn’t so nice any more.”

The deer boy’s ears twitched. “Pahn?”

“Yeah, you, Pan, the horriblest host of the forest! I bet you’re not even nice to lost baby otters any more!” Johnny’s breath hitched on a bit of a sob. It was time to take matters into his own hands (if for no other reason than that he wasn’t going to give this boy the satisfaction of seeing him cry).

The deer boy frowned a bit, but Johnny went back to the cave, grabbed his open and empty bag, and strode out into the forest. He had no idea which direction to go, but the most important direction at the moment was _away_ from this mean and unhelpful creature.

He heard rustling behind him; he turned and saw the deer boy stopped, several meters back.

“Don’t you follow me. Go ‘way now. You’re useless. I’ll find my own way home.” He started walking again, but there were clear sounds of someone traipsing along behind him.

“SHOO! Stay! No, bad deer! Stop following me!” Johnny sniffled and wiped his nose on his wrist, knowing it was anger making him cry a little and not anything stupid like being a baby. He turned and charged towards the other boy a bit, and the deer boy backed up a few steps but never stopped staring at Johnny.

“Fine! I don’t care! Do what you want!” Johnny turned his back on the deer boy and stomped forwards a few more meters. Then he stopped and looked around. The sun was almost directly overhead by now. Unfortunately, that was of no navigational help to him whatsoever. Taking a deep breath, he picked a direction and ran. He began to yell while he ran, venting all the fear and frustration of the past day and night. Yes, he’d done what he set out to do; he found Pan! But Pan was just a stupid kid; it was all just a fairy tale after all, and now he might never make it home. He might have to stay in the forest for the rest of his life, eating nothing but sour berries.

Just as he thought this, he tripped over a great big branch and he screamed. His leg was on fire! What had happened? He looked down from where he was sprawled on the ground and his leg looked funny; his shin was bent at an angle. It looked frightful. He tried to stand up and fell down immediately, and he began to cry harder than he’d ever cried before, even harder than that time he’d got lost from his mum in a supermarket.

And then he felt warm arms around his belly again, and he began to hiccup from the sobs. There was soft murmuring in his ear, words he couldn’t understand but that sounded much like the things his mum said when he scraped a knee, a low soothing susurration that was audible even through his sobbing.

The deer boy scooted around and made as if to touch the broken limb. Johnny screamed and cried “No, no, no, no, no…” and the other boy pulled back his hands and looked upset. He said something very firmly to Johnny, but Johnny was beyond reason, even from incomprehensible forest-dweller words. He gazed at the deer boy through his tears, breath hitching, keening sounds spilling from his mouth without conscious thought. 

The deer boy shifted to a crossed-legs position, laid his hands on his own knees, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

Then he began to sing.

It was an eerie song, beautiful and clear and strange, and it seemed to reach out through the forest as though the sound waves were alive. Johnny’s crying quietened as he tried to listen. What was this boy doing? Johnny’s leg was beginning to throb, and each throb elicited a moan, and he began to breathe faster. He hadn’t realized there was this much pain in the whole world. He began to shiver as he moaned, but he kept watching the forest creature, who continued to sing a song of longing and need and sadness.

After a little while the song seemed to end, and the deer boy reached out one hand towards Johnny’s broken leg, nowhere near touching, clearly a question. Johnny wailed “Noooo!” and the boy pulled his hand back, looking resigned. He moved back around behind Johnny and cradled him again in his lap, as he had the night before in the cave. He rubbed his hands up and down Johnny’s tummy in a somewhat clumsy attempt to calm him as Johnny settled into a steady whimpering between moans as the injured muscles throbbed.

Things became hazy, and it seemed they sat there for hours, though the sun was still high in the sky when Johnny’s vision cleared for a moment. He felt the deer boy’s arms tighten around him.

And then he felt a sort of presence. As he looked around, the world seemed to take on a sharpness; the grass looked greener, the tree bark rougher, the fallen leaves softer. He became aware of sweet birdsong, not from one or two birds but from many small throats. He took a deep breath and the air was so fresh, so full of summertime that he felt he could make a meal of it.

A muffled squeak sounded behind him. He glanced back and saw the deer boy staring around him, and when he looked to see what was there he was astonished to see a very tall man with shaggy, furry legs, hooves for feet, and enormous curly horns coming out of his head. He had a thick beard and lots of hair where there wasn’t fur and he generally looked pretty giant and manly and intimidating. But his eyes were so very kind, Johnny knew this beast would never hurt him.

The beast man knelt next to Johnny, set down a cluster of wooden pipes on the grass, and reached for Johnny’s leg. This time Johnny didn’t make a murmur of protest. The deer boy’s head was resting on his shoulder as he watched the beast man, unblinking.

The man rested furred hands on Johnny’s shin and began to sing softly. Johnny couldn’t understand the words, but he felt as though his chest was filled with warmth, almost as if his heart was glowing, and he sensed that somehow everything was going to be all right. The pain began to ebb in his leg and he watched as the strange angle of his shin straightened, and then there was no pain any more, just his good old leg the way it should be. The man rubbed his hands gently up and down Johnny’s shin a few times and finished his song.

Johnny looked back at the deer boy and smiled, and the deer boy glanced at him briefly with an answering smile.

“ _eeho doi mabroo nobli, ee eeho doi pahn_ ,” the deer boy murmured in a voice much like a prayer.

The man stood and smiled softly; he placed one hand on each of the boys’ heads and held them there for a moment. Johnny closed his eyes and felt utterly and completely loved. The man lifted his hands and stepped back; he bent down to pick up his pipe, and as he began to play, Johnny felt the weight of the entire adventure upon him. The dappled sunlight was warm, and the deer boy behind him was soft and comfortable, and he felt himself drift off into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta service provided by [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/pseuds/Dammit_Clint)! Any mistakes are my own.
> 
> The sour berries are [rose hip berries](http://www.countrylovers.co.uk/wfs/wfsberries.htm), which might be found in [New Forest, England](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Forest).
> 
> Fawnlock's speech is presented phonetically; the proper spelling is
> 
> .i'o doi mabru nobli .i .i'o doi pan
> 
> Thanks to my partner R for the linguistics support!
> 
> (Bonus points if you figure out what language I am using as the forest language!)


	3. Stuck in the Woods?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny finishes his enforced nap. How will he get home?

_15 May 1982 (continued)_

Johnny came awake with his eyes still closed. He felt warm and comfortable, and he nuzzled against his pillow sleepily. His pillow was so soft; it felt furry.

His pillow rumbled.

Johnny cracked open an eye, and he did not see a pillow under his head but instead a furry tummy that was starting to shift about. He took a deep breath, opened his other eye, and looked around to see trees towering above him in slanted afternoon light.

Sitting up slowly, he saw the deer boy tucked in just behind him, yawning and stretching. It looked like Johnny was stuck here in these woods for another night. He knew he should feel alarmed at the prospect, but he just felt sort of hazy and happy.

The deer boy babbled and reached for something shiny on the ground.

“Hey! My compass! I thought I lost that!”

There was a brief struggle. The deer boy clearly wanted to examine his find, but Johnny was insistent on reclaiming his property.

“Here, I’ll show you how it works,” Johnny conceded when he had a firm grasp on it again. “You make the needle point to the N, like this.” He pivoted the compass around, keeping it more or less horizontal to the ground. The deer boy peered at it with interest.

“Huh. The needle is supposed to point to N if you turn it enough.” No matter what Johnny did, the needle remained pointing to the smaller “NE”. “I guess it’s broken?”

The deer boy became quite excited.

“ _koh fargow leh meentoo beh tee do! ee ba boh klama leh doh zdahnee!_ ”

Johnny stared at him.

“ _oy! ow sigh koh klama! ee koh klama, ee koh klama!_ ”

“What are you on about?”

Fed up, the deer boy grabbed Johnny’s hand and began to pull him in the direction that the needle was pointing.

“That’s not going to do us any good! We don’t know what’s northeast of here! ...Oh, I guess it doesn’t matter, just so long as we find a place to sleep for tonight,” Johnny sighed. He straggled along behind the other boy.

They walked for maybe an hour as the sun dipped lower in the sky; the air was filled with an orange glow. The birds’ songs were becoming quieter as they settled themselves in for sleep. Johnny ambled easily behind his new friend, unaware that this journey almost never happened due to a broken leg.

The forest started to thin out, and then as the sun reluctantly set and the light grew dimmer, Johnny glimpsed his home through the trees.

“My house! My house!” He began to run towards it. He saw his mum sitting on the back stoop.

“MUM! MUM! It’s me!”

She gave a sob and opened her arms wide, and he slammed into her and hugged her with all his might.

“Oh Johnny, you’ve scared us so.” She began to pull him into the house.

He stopped at the doorway and looked back, once. The deer boy was stood at the edge of his back garden, the silvery compass clutched in his hand, forgotten. He looked unutterably sad.

Then his mum closed the door and there was a great ruckus, his father hugging him and shouting, Harry grumbling, his mum laughing. In a few moments, bread and butter and jam and a big glass of cold milk were set in front of him on the kitchen table and he began to eat, grinning, happy to be back where he belonged.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short. A much longer one in the works.
> 
> In fact, this fic has spun out to be rather bigger than I expected in my head, at least 10-15 chapters' worth. Updates will be terribly erratic due to starting 2 classes in the fall along with 3/4-time work (first time I've had to do 2 classes while working).
> 
> Warning: the rating will likely change to E in the next chapter, with teenage sexuality involved (for characters aged 13 thru 18).
> 
> Hooray again for [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/pseuds/Dammit_Clint), beta supreme!
> 
> The proper spelling/punctuation of Fawnlock's speech in this chapter:
> 
> ko fargau le mintu be ti do .i ba bo klama le do zdani  
> .oi .au sai ko klama .i ko klama .i ko klama
> 
> (Unfortunately, Google Translate does not translate this language yet, but if you figure out what the language is, there is a translator online)


	4. Puberty Hits Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny starts to grow up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for shame about masturbation, discussion of teenage sexuality (13-18 years old), paternal violence against an inanimate object, mention of unjustly sending a girl home for wearing a short skirt, incestuous thoughts.

When Johnny was a child, the world had seemed magical.

He devoured science fiction books like _Dune_ and _Dragonflight_. The Force was a real thing to him, and he dreamed at night that he was living in Cloud City or that he had been chosen as the Kwisatz Haderach. He and his mother read L’Engle’s Time Trilogy to each other, discussing the philosophy and science therein. Soundtracks by John Williams and Bernard Hermann filled his ears from a Walkman cassette player he’d received for his twelfth birthday. He did his homework earnestly and thoroughly and spent a great deal of time staring out the window at the forest, daydreaming about what the future might be like.

Johnny was always drawn to the woods, and after losing his way that fateful night, his dad taught him serious woodscraft--how to find edible plants, how to build a structure from downed branches, how to navigate, with or without a compass. Johnny and his dad began camping every weekend, sometimes just a few meters from the house, sometimes driving to the coast, just to be outdoors and in the quiet of nature.

He and his dad grew very close, though they didn’t talk much about anything other than forest skills. They could spend a whole weekend setting up a tent, tending a fire, fishing, cooking, eating, and reading with barely a dozen words between them. It was an easy, comfortable relationship.

Johnny and his mother were close in a different way. It seemed as though they never stopped talking. His mother had been an English major, and she taught him stories and language and how to see layers of meaning behind words. She listened carefully to the tales of his days at school and discussed the troubles of a Year 6 child as seriously as she discussed politics with her husband.

His mother’s relationship with him was a balm for her in the stormy seas of dealing with Harry. When Harry was home--which was less and less often as the years went by--the house was filled with yelling and tears, a constant battle to try to hold back a young woman intent on doing everything she could to shock her parents. Johnny hated Harry. Of course he loved her, because she was his sister and he had to. But he hated how mean she was, how self-centered, how she made their mother cry and made their father so angry that one night he punched a hole in the kitchen wall.

Most of all he hated the way she invaded his otherwise beautiful, magical existence. Every night when he went to bed, he made a secret prayer that he could be an only child--without hurting Harry, of course, more like just nullifying her out of existence so that he and his parents could be a happy, calm family unit.

However, when Harry wasn’t causing a fuss, Johnny’s childhood was sweet and mystical; his thoughts were filled with wonder and with the products of his fervent imagination. Sometimes, on a moonlit night in the summer, Johnny would stand by his window and look towards the forest and strain to catch a glimpse of antlers.

He never did.

* * *

_September 1987_

The onset of adolescent hormones threw Johnny into a spin. The world was abruptly confusing. Social interactions at school became bizarre. He felt bursts of unattributable joy or anger at random times during the day.

And then there was his cock.

This formerly quiet, unassuming piece of flesh that had existed simply as a useful conduit for urine had a personality change and became capricious, demanding, embarrassing. He found that if he didn’t jack off at least three times a day, unexpected erections made his life extremely difficult and undignified.

So Johnny wanked. A lot. At first he didn’t have to do anything other than wrap his hand around his turgid shaft, move the foreskin up and down a few times, and bang, success! After a few weeks of masturbation, though, he noticed images creeping into his mind’s eye, unbidden--an accidental glimpse he’d once had of his sister’s firm, pink-tipped breasts when she’d forgotten to lock the bathroom door; the small penis on the statue of David in one of his art books; the sway of a classmate’s ass in the short skirt that got her sent home from school one day. Then his brain became entirely unacceptable, serving up memories of his own father’s dick spied while pissing on camping trips and of his mother’s breasts gently wriggling in a low-cut blouse while she gardened. He drew the line at such visions.

He tried not masturbating for a few days, calling a moratorium on the kind of indecent activity that would lead him to think of his own parents’ body parts whilst abusing himself. That lasted until the day they were required to strip down in the shower after gym; the physical education teacher had decided that the boys were far too smelly after footie practice and could no longer get by with a quick wipe-down.

No way could Johnny risk having a surprise erection in the damn gym showers.

So he decided to take charge of his jack-off fantasies. He didn’t know of any visual materials other than his comic books, so he turned to his beloved friends, the Silver Surfer and Wonder Woman and Spiderman. Their sculpted bodies, bulging in their colourful outfits, provided ample material to keep his brain occupied with more acceptable images.

Eventually he graduated from staring at the motionless pictures in the comic books to imagining the superheroes in three-dimensions and stereo sound. Johnny found that it was easy to envision pushing his throbbing dick into all sorts of strange, warm places. Between thighs, breasts, hands, armpits. The characters were always gentle and welcoming, encouraging him.

“Come on, Johnny,” they would murmur to him. “Let me feel your beautiful prick. Rub it against my silky, shiny uniform, _please_ …I need to feel you _cum on me…_ ”

This worked exceedingly well to push out disgusting, incest-laden thoughts. Johnny’s comics began to look a bit worn. Johnny’s mum was discreet enough not to say a word about how much more toilet paper Johnny was using up now.

* * *

The juxtaposition of this new, vigorous sex life with the gentle, dreamy existence he used to have was bewildering. Johnny wasn’t quite sure how to reconcile the sex fiend he had become with the child who had honored nature with his dad and talked ideas with his mum. He felt ashamed of his constant need for release and the continuous thoughts that saturated his every waking moment; at school, every person he saw was an instant candidate as a potential repository for his jism; at home, every moment spent away from his comic books was a kind of torture.

By the end of the first school year of his sexual awakening, Johnny was sure that he was going to hell, although his parents were not terribly religious and he wasn’t very clear on what "going to hell" meant. Relief from this torment came from an altogether unexpected quarter: Harry.

One day, as he sat on the closed toilet lid frantically pulling one out, he heard the locked door handle begin to rattle. As he watched in horror, the knob turned, and suddenly Harry was letting herself in, a mangled paper clip dangling from her fingertips.

“Harry! Get out! Get the hell out!”

Harry looked over at where he was attempting to hide his erection under the hem of his shirt, chuckled, kicked the door closed and opened the medicine cabinet.

“Oh calm the fuck down, John-o. Nothing I haven’t seen before. I need my black lipstick.”

She glanced back over at him and, for once in her oblivious life, seemed to notice the expression on his face.

“Shit, you’re really freaking out, aren’t you kid. You _know_ we all know what you do when you spend all this time in the loo. Nobody cares.”

“You know?” Johnny whispered, his eyes filling with tears.

“Yeah, duh. Who cares? Everybody jacks off. It’s no big deal. You got some decent porn? That comic book looks like it’s about to fall apart.”

“Porn?” he repeated, gobsmacked.

“Yeah. I bet you don’t. I’ll lend you some of mine, just don’t let Mum know or she’ll go off on me again, she’s been on my case all week and I’ve got to get out to a party tomorrow night.”

“You have porn?”

Harry found her lipstick and closed the medicine cabinet. She leaned her hip against the counter, amused.

“Yeah, dipshit, of course I’ve got porn. You like boys or girls more? I’ve got a lot more girls than boys, but I’ll loan you some of each. Just don’t get any of your disgusting spunk on it or I’ll beat you to a pulp.”

Johnny was speechless. Harry gave another short laugh at the expression on his face, then turned and left the room, closing the door with a loud _snick_. Johnny found that he no longer needed release at the moment; in fact, he couldn’t remember his penis being this small since this whole ordeal had started.

That night he found a pile of magazines between his bed and the wall, where he kept his comics. It was a sleepless and busy night.

After that, somehow knowing that Harry had the same problem made things better. It wasn’t like he wanted to be _like_ Harry in any way, but her complete lack of shock soothed something in his subconscious, and he began to accept that he had sexual needs and that they didn’t make him a bad person. He realized that his urgent sex drive didn’t have to define who he was in the other areas of his life. When the new school year began, he came out of the shell of misery he’d curled up in, and he tried out for drama and the rugby club and found that he made friends easily with both boys and girls.

Johnny became popular at school.

The night Johnny turned fourteen, he asked to be allowed to camp out back, in the woods, alone. His parents agreed readily; he had proven quite able to handle himself in the forest, and they understood a young man’s need for privacy.

He stayed up all night, alternately sitting on his sleeping bag, wanking, and then lying back with his head out the flap of the tent, gazing at the stars. A fog crept in, making the little clearing ethereal and pretty. The stars disappeared, and he felt his eyes start to grow heavy, when there was a rustling behind a nearby tree.

Johnny sat up quickly. It was likely just a rabbit or something equally non-threatening, but his dad had taught him not to underestimate wildlife. His fire had died down, and the fog had made things rather dark. He peered into the mist.

There was another rustle, and a break in the clouds allowed a bit of moonlight to beam down. Johnny saw a figure just behind the tree. It was difficult to see any details in the gloom, but it was definitely something at least two meters tall. Johnny jumped up, grabbing one of the sticks off the fire, waving the glowing ember towards the tree.

“Who’s out there?” he called, ready to run if it turned out to be a bear.

There was no answer. He blinked, and the figure was gone. He stood still a long time; finally he gathered his courage to go check around the tree, but there was nothing there, and he could see little in the renewed darkness.

As he lay back down in his tent, he felt a strange, hollow longing behind his breastbone.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon shout-out to:  
> [Kryptaria](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/profile), whose John Watson in [Northwest Passage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/531662/chapters/943040) loved Madeline L’Engle as a child 
> 
> Everlasting thanks again to the indefatigable [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/profile) for excellent beta'ing.


	5. A Harbinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny shares his tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see notes at the end for warnings that are slightly spoilery. Note also the Archive Warning.

_September 1988_

  
The first girl to come to Johnny’s tent invited herself.

* * *

  
Johnny and Christine were snogging under the terrace by the rugby field. He was absolutely covered in sweat and grime from the game, but Christine claimed to like him that way.

“Have you ever had a blowjob, Johnny?” Christine murmured as she nipped his ear.

Johnny blushed bright crimson.

“Not as such, no.”

“Fancy one?”

“What, here?”

“Yeah.” She moved to mouth at his sweaty neck.

“Uh, no, anyone could walk by at any minute.”

“How about your house? Anyone home?”

“Just my _mum_.”

“Well, where can we do it then?”

Johnny pulled back and looked at her, sure she was having him on. She seemed quite earnest.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I wanna find out what that cricket bat you’ve got in those shorts feels like in my mouth.” She grabbed his left hand and sucked a couple of fingers, swirling her tongue around them. Johnny felt his knees go weak.

“Well, we could use my tent…”

“Your tent?”

“Yeah, I sleep out back in a tent. ‘S pretty private ‘n all.”

A smile spread slowly across Christine’s face, and she dropped his fingers.

“It’s a date, then. I’ll see you tonight at half-ten.”

“But, you don’t know where I live!”

“Oh, I know. See you then, Johnny.” Christine gave him a rather alarming leer and headed back to the school.

Johnny took a few minutes to calm down before going to the showers.

* * *

  
Since his 14th birthday, Johnny had slept in his tent more and more often; now he slept out almost every night unless there was a really terrible storm. His tent had become well-equipped, with a roll of toilet paper, a little box he used for trash, various snacks, and a canteen that he filled each night at dinner from the tap. He kept a few porn magazines hidden in a small stack of comics that he didn’t care about (wouldn’t do to get the good ones damp), but mainly he relied on his imagination for wank material. He also kept a heavy-duty camping flashlight in the tent.

Johnny’s evening routine usually started with sitting down to dinner with his family, which was like trying to play a civil game of tennis while a football team used the net for goal practice. He would attempt to answer his mother and father’s questions to him about his day while Harry complained, whined, burped, and generally behaved as loudly and obnoxiously as she could manage. Then, after dinner, Johnny would do his homework in his room at his small wooden desk, catching up on the history of punk with bands like Stiff Little Fingers and The Ramones through headphones on his Discman. (The music was invigorating, helped him concentrate, and also blocked out the nightly Harry-and-Mum screaming match.) When his homework was done, he would brush his teeth, run a wet cloth over his face, put on track suit bottoms and a jumper, and head to his tent.

The night of Christine’s proposition was different. He tripped bringing the bowl of mashed potatoes to the table for his mum. At dinner he knocked over his milk, which he hadn’t done since he was seven. He dropped his fork twice and banged his head on the table picking it up the second time.

“What’s got into you, Johnny?” his mum asked, pausing in the middle of critiquing Harry’s latest ear piercing.

Johnny stared at her, unable to think of a single answer.

“ _Mum_ , Tatiana has five piercings, and they ain’t all in her ears. Y’oughta be glad I’ve just got the three.”

“You look like a right tart, Harry. It’s getting out of hand.”

“May I be excused?” Johnny winced internally; he hadn’t asked to be excused in years.

“Of course, Johnny,” his dad answered, giving him a questioning look. “Remember to take your plate.”

Johnny cleared his place and fled to his room. Now came the tricky part. He really wanted to take a shower, but that would raise questions. He sat on his cane-bottom desk chair and gazed at his desktop, thinking. He became aware of the sickly-green cover of his maths textbook staring up at him.

“Oh _blast_ , homework. How the fuck am I supposed to concentrate?” he muttered. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, making it stand in odd tufts, and sighed deeply, pulling out a notebook.

He solved a mere three trigonometry problems (wrongly, it would turn out) by the time he usually brushed his teeth, so he gave it up as a bad business. He rifled through his pants drawer to find a pair that didn’t have holes and headed to the bathroom.

He brushed his teeth until his gums began to bleed and washed his face. Looking assessingly at the soapy cloth, he decided a sponge bath was better than nothing. He shucked off his jeans and pants and scrubbed at his cock and scrotum. Then he reached up under his vest and soaped under his arms, as well. He rinsed the cloth and used it to remove the soap from his skin as best he could. On went the clean pants and his usual track suit bottoms and jumper; a comb through his hair, and he was as ready as he would ever be.

“‘Night Mum, ‘night Da,” he called as he headed out the back door. They were speaking quietly to each other over the kitchen table, heads together.

“Good night, dear,” his mum said.

“Sweet dreams, lad,” his dad said as he always did.

_If I get any sleep at all_ , Johnny thought.

* * *

  
Once in his tent, with the flashlight on for ambient light, he couldn’t decide how to sit. Cross-legged and casual? Maybe he should stretch out and look sexy. He tried it and felt like a fool.

Maybe he should take his track suit bottoms off, make things a little easier. He kicked off his trainers and wriggled out of the trousers. No, ew, that looked too eager! He hastily pulled them back on.

He was in the middle of messing up his hair in an attempt to fashion it into sexy bedhead when a baby raccoon ambled into the tent.

“Hey, you bugger! Get out! Shoo! No room for you!” Johnny gently pushed the little creature back out the tent flap when Christine’s head appeared.

“What, I’m not allowed in?” she joked. Then she spied the raccoon.

“Oh, what a little sweetheart!” She stroked a fingertip down its back, and it chittered.

“No, stop, we don’t want to get our scent on it, not good for the mother,” Johnny scolded.

“Oh, sorry, baby,” she crooned and pulled her hand back. “Go find your mum now, there’s a good wee thing.” It trundled off, and she looked up at Johnny, and they chuckled.

“Hi!” she said cheerfully, climbing in the flap.

“Hi,” Johnny said, nerves starting to return.

“Nice place you got here.”

“Well, I like it. Hey, how’d you know where I live?”

“All the girls know where you live,” Christine said mysteriously. “Now how’s about you give a girl a kiss.”

They made out for a while. Christine helped Johnny find a comfortable position where one leg was sort of wrapped around her hip, the other tucked under her knees. The rhythm of kissing calmed him, and he stopped being quite so nervous.

Then she slid her hands down the front of his jumper, slowly, until she reached the hem.

“Off?” she suggested. She helped him pull it over his head, and he tossed it in a corner. They continued kissing, and she began to unbutton her blouse. Johnny broke off the kiss and sat back a little to watch in the dim light. Christine gazed at him steadily as she pulled the blouse off and reached back to unfasten her bra. As her breasts tumbled out of the satiny cups, Johnny bit his lower lip and held his breath.

There was a person sitting in front of him, warm and breathing, who was baring herself for him, who wanted to have a sexual encounter with _him_. His mouth was dry; there was a dull buzzing in his ears.

“Well? You just gonna sit there, or you gonna have a feel?” Christine’s words would have been intimidating if not coupled with her gentle tone. She reached out, took Johnny’s hand, and placed it firmly on her breast.

He just held it there for a moment, taking in the softness, the roundness. Then she pressed her chest into his hand, and he moved it a bit, stroking with his fingertips, and she moaned, so he tried a little squeeze.

“That’s it, really get to know them. Here, do both.” She put his other hand against her neglected tit and, overcome with gratitude, he leaned in to kiss her. They scootched closer together, and he began squeezing both breasts harder.

She broke the kiss. “Gentle, gentle now. Play with them, don’t just grab and crush them. Here, let me show you.”

He dropped his hands and watched as she began to caress herself. First she cupped the flesh from underneath, using fingertips and thumbs to pinch at her nipples. She made soft, pleased sounds, and when he glanced up at her face, he saw her eyes were closed. She began to alternate between kneading the soft mounds and tugging at the areolae, pulling them out further than he would ever have dared.

Johnny was fascinated.

Crooning to herself, Christine dropped one hand between her legs and began pushing the heel of her palm against herself. She lifted the other breast, ducked her head, and _sucked her nipple into her mouth_.

Both Christine and Johnny let out groans simultaneously.

She opened her eyes, let go of the nipple, and grinned at Johnny. “You get the idea?”

Johnny nodded, speechless.

“Wanna try?”

Another nod, and he lifted slightly trembling hands and tried to repeat what he’d seen her do. Gentler on the breasts proper, and pinchier behind the nipples. He established a bit of a pulling rhythm. Christine hummed in approval and continued to push against her hand.

“Wanna get those off, Johnny? You look like you’re about to split a seam.”

Johnny looked down at where his cock was straining proudly against its cotton prison.

“Yeah, I think so.” He wriggled out of the track suit bottoms, and then, glancing at her and getting a nod, slid off his pants.

“Oo, Johnny, that’s lovely, that is.”

Christine bent over and put her face next to his rigid penis, and Johnny leaned back on both arms.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it hadn’t been for her to actually blow on it. Shit, is that what a blow job actually was? Blowing? That didn’t sound all that—

He felt the flat of her tongue move from his balls to his tip, and he whimpered. He looked down and saw she was grinning up at him.

“Patience, young man. Patience.” She proceeded to nibble and lick along his shaft. His eyes rolled back, and he fell back onto the ground. She took the opportunity to clamber over his legs and get a better angle.

And then he was engulfed in warmth, in wet, a tongue stroking him—

“I’m going to cum!” he cried. She continued to suck, and his muscles tensed as he began to pulse into her mouth. He threw his arm over his mouth and bit down to muffle his yelling.

When he’d stopped cumming, she sucked her way up his shaft and off the tip, collecting all the semen. She waited until he looked up at her, and she swallowed, licking her lips after.

“Not all girls swallow, Johnny. But I think it completes things, don’t you?”

He nodded dumbly. Rubbing his face, he tried to gather his wits.

“I’m sorry that was so fast.”

“No worries, luv. That was your first time, yeah? First time is always fast. Besides, you’ll be ready to go again in a few minutes, right? While we’re waiting, let me show you something you can do to me…”

That night, Johnny got his first lesson in cunnilingus, in between cumming two more times in the knowledgeable Christine’s sweet mouth.

* * *

  
A hand dropped onto Fawnlock’s head and he shook it off, irritably. He was sat on a bed of leaves, his arms tight around his legs, chin on his knees, curled into a ball of misery. He gazed through the trees at a tent lit from inside by a flashlight, which was throwing the silhouettes of two young humans. Sounds from the tent rang through the clearing.

_lo nu kurji na sidju do_  (“Caring is not an advantage, little brother.”)

_.i mi kurji no da_  (“I don’t care about anything.”)

_.i mi gleki .i lo remna cu rinka lo nu cortu kei po'o .i ko rivbi_  (“I’m glad to hear it. Humans bring nothing but pain. You must steer clear of them.”)

_.i ko ko malgletu doi mirlikraft .i mi na nitcu do_  (“Fuck off, Moosecroft. I don’t need you here.”)

Fawnlock continued sitting at the edge of the glade long after Moosecroft took his leave, staring at the tent, telling himself he didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with underage fictional characters having sex. If this bothers you, please skip this chapter.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/profile) for beta'ing. She improves the writing greatly. All remaining mistakes are in spite of her best efforts.


	6. Fawnlock the Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny has a study partner, and Fawnlock sees more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see notes at the end for warnings that are slightly spoilery. Note also the Archive Warning.

_October 1989_

  
“Okay, let’s see what shite we’re supposed to learn today,” Johnny said cheerfully.

Fawnlock twitched his ears. He was sitting on the ground, in the dark, with his back against the side of Johnny’s house, tucked up below Johnny’s bedroom window. It was a bit risky—if anyone came into the back garden, they’d see him—but he’d been watching the house for years, and no one ever set foot outside after dark until Johnny made his nightly trek to his tent.

Once in a while, Fawnlock moved his head up to peer in the window. He didn’t do it often, so the risk of being seen was low. His hearing was much better than a human’s, so he was still able to spy fairly effectively, even with the window was shut against the late autumn chill.

“I fucking hate biology. Why do we have to study this,” Dreadful Boy muttered.

Fawnlock hated the Dreadful Boy the first time he heard him. Several days before, this vile interloper had begun visiting Johnny _in his room_. It was one thing for Johnny to bring females to his tent (and he brought an awful lot of females to his tent), but to allow another outsider into his _private space_  was a real affront to Fawnlock’s sense of territory. Fawnlock had instantly dubbed him _se xebni nanla_  (“Dreadful Boy”) and directed his nascent magic towards the teen. So far all it had led to was some itching and a stubbed toe, but he was hoping to do better.

As he crouched under the window, listening to Johnny converse with the disgusting trespasser, Fawnlock wished he had paid more attention to Moosecroft’s attempts to teach him _cilce makfa_  (Earth magic).

“We might as well make the best of it. Okay, this week we’re supposed to be going over the male reproductive system,” Johnny said.

Dreadful Boy giggled nervously.

“Let’s see, page 267...oh, oh my, well, yes, that is indeed the male reproductive system, there,” Johnny said in a mostly even tone.

Fawnlock didn’t understand all the words, but he had picked up a lot of human-speak over the past seven years. At first he tried observing Johnny and the human who was clearly his father when they spent time at various places in the forest. But Fawnlock had been frustrated; they barely talked at all. From those interactions, he had learned “fish”, “fire”, “tent”, “water”, but not much else.

This had led him to stalking many other human campsites. He begged Moosecroft to teach him human-speak, but Moosecroft refused, saying that humans were far too dangerous and that he didn’t want Fawnlock studying them or, indeed, going anywhere near them.

Fawnlock of course ignored this as often as he could slip away from his ancestral home. He was already multi-lingual. Most of his kind knew _mirli remna bangu_  and one or two other languages, such as the language of the birds, or perhaps the language of snakes. Fawnlock knew _all_  of the languages of the animals of New Forest, England, and some of the tongues of the flora. Fawnlock found that the rhythm of human-speak wasn’t all that different from the speech of his own people, and he picked it up fairly quickly.

When Johnny began staying in a tent on his own, Fawnlock was pleased to find that the youth talked more to himself than he had to his father. Listening to Johnny murmur to himself, night after night, Fawnlock learned various new words like “piss” (“Oh fuck, drank too much water after dinner, gotta take a piss. Goddamn it”) and “shit” (which evidently meant “Ow, I stood up much too fast and hit my head on the pole of my tent”), and he learned the moods that Johnny’s tones of voice indicated. He also became acquainted with deep moans that intrigued and disturbed him in equal measure.

He was still puzzling over the meaning of the hard lumps that opened up to reveal many artificially rectangular leaves. Johnny spent a lot of time staring at them when he was in his room, but they looked utterly boring to Fawnlock. The leaves were all attached to a single “branch”, and they didn’t change colors with the seasons. Fawnlock knew that Johnny wasn’t completely brainless, so he deduced that there was something about these seemingly useless artifacts that he hadn’t figured out yet.

Fawnlock had spent hours perusing the thin, garishly colored piles of leaves Johnny kept in the tent. He’d seen one years before when he had sheltered Johnny in a little cave during a lightning storm. The smaller piles of leaves were filled with pictures; some of the pictures were clearly of humans, but many of the others held no meaning for Fawnlock. It frustrated him mightily.

He risked a quick look in the window at the scene. Johnny was sitting on his bed, his back to the wall that had the window in it, and Dreadful Boy was sitting next to him. A little too close, at that. Their arms were touching. Johnny had one of those leaf piles on his lap. Fawnlock looked more closely at the two leaves displayed, and he saw that there was a drawing of a human on one. The human in the drawing had none of the artificial fur coverings that Fawnlock was accustomed to seeing; the pink skin of human faces and hands was extended to cover the entire body in the drawing. The drawing had a strange-looking _pinji_ ; maybe it was a drawing of a girl human?

Johnny turned the leaf, and there was another drawing, but it was impossible to figure out what it was meant to depict. Fawnlock frowned.

“I can’t believe she wants us to be able to _sketch_  this on the test. Okay, so there’s the corpus cavernosum, and the corpus spongiosum, and the urethra.” Johnny was using words that were unfamiliar to Fawnlock, and he was pointing to black squiggles on the picture that were similar to the black squiggles that filled most of the leaves in the strange piles. What did that mean? Fawnlock sat back down to think.

“I don’t have a fuckin’ urethra,” said Dreadful Boy sullenly.

“Yeah, you do, we all do.”

“Yeah? Well prove it to me, Watson.”

“You want me to prove you have a urethra?”

“Yeah…” Dreadful Boy’s tone changed into something low and smooth. “Prove it to me.”

Fawnlock pricked up his ears, but Johnny didn’t seem to have a response to that.

After a few moments of quiet, Fawnlock looked back in the window.

Johnny was _kissing_  Dreadful Boy.

Fawnlock knew the word “kiss” from Johnny’s tent activities. He’d seen Johnny “kiss” several girls. But there was something about Johnny kissing Dreadful Boy that hurt Fawnlock’s heart in a new and sharper way.

Fawnlock stared and willed himself not to feel, just to take in data, as Dreadful Boy moved his hand to rub at the artificial fur outside Johnny’s _pinji_.

Johnny groaned.

Fawnlock bit his lip.

Now Johnny’s hands were moving at Dreadful Boy’s crotch, peeling open the artificial fur to reveal a deformed _pinji_  that was too fat, too short, and was missing its proper end-crook. Fawnlock shuddered, wondering what kind of accident must have befallen Dreadful Boy. Then Dreadful Boy parted Johnny’s artificial fur to reveal a similarly deformed _pinji_.

Fawnlock shut his eyes and drew in a few deep, healing breaths. He opened them again and re-evaluated: if both humans had this horrible disfigurement, then perhaps it wasn’t an accident at all; perhaps it was the average human form. With his need to keep himself concealed, he’d never managed to get the correct angle to see Johnny’s _pinji_  any of the times the teen left the tent to “piss” against a tree. Fawnlock forced himself to open his eyes and continued to watch as both teens stroked each other’s members.

Dreadful Boy’s _pinji_  erupted with cloudy white fluid after about a minute, at which point his hand dropped from Johnny’s flesh. Johnny took over and stroked himself until he, too, emitted fluid. The two young men stared at each other.

Abruptly, Dreadful Boy jumped from the bed, pulling together his artificial fur. He leapt up so quickly that Fawnlock did not have time to react, and for one terrible moment, Fawnlock looked right into Dreadful Boy’s eyes. He was pleased to see that Dreadful Boy looked appropriately terrified.

“I have to go, Johnny. See you in school.” Dreadful Boy opened Johnny’s door and disappeared. Johnny held his own artificial fur together with one hand and stumbled to shut the door; then he sat down in his chair, artificial fur gaping, and gazed off into space. Fawnlock quickly ducked below the window.

“What in the hell just happened,” Johnny murmured to himself.

Fawnlock realized he was feeling upset at the bewildered, almost lost look on Johnny’s face, and he pinched himself on the arm in retribution for having _emotions_  and crept quietly back into the forest.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued warnings for fictional characters having underage sex.
> 
> Translations:  
>  _se xebni nanla_  = Dreadful Boy  
>  _pinji_  = penis  
>  _mirli remna bangu_  = Deer Person language  
>  _cilce makfa_  = gaiamancy, or Earth magic
> 
> The [drawing](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_penis#mediaviewer/File:Penis_lateral_cross_section.jpg) Johnny and “Dreadful Boy” were looking at
> 
> Note: It’s distressingly hard* to find a picture of a deer penis that isn’t dried and/or cut up for human consumption (and those are the nicer images), but I’m hoping that [this dildo](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.zoofur.com%2Fthe-deer.html&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNFKG2-FjtEHESBrF5IqF70BW-ODTA) is reasonably accurate. As Fawnlock’s body is part deer, I’ve decided that he has a very deer-like penis. In my ‘verse it stays mostly retracted behind a patch of fur until he is ready to rut.
> 
> *(Warning for this footnote for animal cruelty triggers)  
> I understand that the culture I was raised in and live in doesn’t happen to value the medicinal properties of deer penis, and I also understand that as a meat eater, I am a hypocrite for being squeamish about killing animals for eating. However, I still feel that vivisection is cruelty (vivisection is purported to be useful to aid the medicinal properties, according to my inadvertent research).


	7. Observations from Afar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny is the discussion topic of a sleepover, and Moosecroft seeks out Fawnlock.

_March 1990_

  
Brandi pounded her friend’s pillow with her fist. It was softer than she was used to, and she had to fuss with it to keep it from smothering her nose.

It was her first sleepover at Fiona’s house. She’d brought her sleeping bag, but Fiona had suggested she might be more comfortable in Fiona’s double bed. And she was; it was just that Fiona’s pillow was too puffy. But it smelled like Fiona’s shampoo, so that was a bit nice.

“So you really never done it?” Fiona asked.

“Naw, Fi, have you?”

“Yeah, I lost m’ cherry a few months ago.”

Brandi stared up at the yellow trapezoids drawn on the ceiling by the headlamps of passing cars and thought about that.

“Ya never said.”

“Ya never asked,” countered Fiona.

“Well who was it then?”

“Johnny Watson.”

“Get out.”

“Hand to God.”

“Johnny Watson? Isn’t he a little...I dunno…” Brandi waved her hands above the covers in an altogether vague manner.

“What? Boring? Ordinary?” Fiona snorted. “Not hardly.”

Brandi turned on her side, propping her head on her arm, which had the added benefit of keeping her nose out of the fluffy pillow.

“Well don’t keep me waiting! I wanna hear it all.”

“Maybe I don’t feel like _tellin’_  it all.” But Fiona was grinning and had rolled to face Bianca; it was clear she wanted to spill.

“Go on. Those of you who ‘ _have_ ’ need to give those of us who ‘ _haven’t_ ’ somethin’ to dream about!”

“Yeah, all right. It’s Alice who told me about him. I told her I was tired of bein’ a virgin, and Alice said go see Johnny Watson, he’s the boy to take care of it. And I said right, he’s a footballer, but he’s never seen a pussy in his life. And she said just you go and try him out.

“So I did. He’s got a little tent out back his parent’s house, and I went and saw him one night.”

“Wait,” Brandi interrupted. “What did you wear?”

“You know that leather skirt we got for a laugh that one time? Yeah, that, and that purple blouse—”

“The one that’s too small?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. And I had on m’ best pants and a bra that does up in the front. And I went in his tent—”

“What was he wearing?”

“Oh, just some jeans and a school jersey. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Okay, go on…”

“So I go in and I say ‘Hey, Johnny.’ And he goes ‘Hey, Fiona. Can I do summat for you?’ ...like he already knows what I’m there for, right? And I’m kinda insulted, ‘cause what am I, some kinda slag? And he takes m’ hand and says ‘Have a seat,’ all gentleman-like, like we’re at a nice restaurant or summat and not in his old camp tent. So I decide to stay.”

Fiona interrupted her story to roll over and take a sip of the soda on her bedside table to build some dramatic tension.

“And then what happened?”

“So I say ‘Well, I was talkin’ to Alice,’ right, hoping he’ll just _know_ , and I don’t have to spell it out. But he just looks at me, y’know, nice-like, but like he’s not gonna say it for me. So it starts to get weird, so I say ‘She said you got her sorted, right?’

“And he leans in close, we’re sittin’ in front of each other, yeah, and he holds my hand and leans over and says, real quiet-like, ‘If you want it, Fiona, you’re gonna hafta say it out loud; I’m not a mind-reader.’ _I’m not a bloody mind-reader_! Like he doesn’t already know what I’m askin’, right? Fuckin’ cheek.”

Brandi tsked appropriately.

“So I has to come out and say it, right? So I’m like ‘Yeah, well, Johnny, I wantcha to do it with me, Alice says you’re real good with first-timers.’ And he kinda smiles, like kinda almost sad, and he says ‘Yeah, we can do that if you’re sure, but it’s just th’ one time, see? It’s not gonna lead t'anything. I’ll show you how but then you gotta go find someone else to fall in love with.’ But, like, Alice warned me beforehand, that’s what Johnny does; he shows girls how to do it and then talks ‘em through findin’ a proper boyfriend, right? So I was ready for that.”

Fiona paused. Brandi grew impatient.

“So what’d he do? C’mon, Fi, you can’t just build it up like that and then not tell a girl.”

Fiona seemed to come to a decision, and she scooted a little closer to Brandi in the bed and lowered her voice conspiratorially.

“So he has me take off all m’ clothes, yeah? And then he takes off all his clothes, and we lie down on the floor, kinda like this.” Fiona touched Brandi’s arm briefly, gesturing to their relative positions. “And then he says, ‘Look, Fiona, don’t you let nobody tell you different, it’s not about just shovin’ it in and movin’ it in and out and _bam_ , that’s the end. You make sure a boy treats you proper, like. You make him take his time and get you nice and wet, see, and then you make him use a rubber and you make him get you off.’”

By now, Fiona had gotten very close to Brandi and was speaking very softly. Brandi’s pyjamas began to feel too warm under the covers, but she was suddenly shy about pushing the covers off. Fiona wasn’t looking at Brandi’s eyes any more; she seemed to be whispering directly at Brandi’s mouth. Brandi licked her lips without noticing.

“So then he scooted down so his face was at my crotch, see, and I didn’t know what he was gonna do. And he rolled me over onto my back, like, and then he kinda put his nose down in my, well, y’know, _hair_. And I didn’t know nobody did that, right? I never read no books or nothin’ before that. Like, sexy books. And then he moved my legs apart, and he started lickin’ me, _down there_.”

Brandi blushed in the darkness.

“What…what did it feel like?” she asked quietly, and she had to clear her throat a little.

“Well it’s kinda hard to describe, y’know. Ya kinda have to feel it.”

“I wish I could feel it now.”

Fiona leaned over to Brandi’s ear and said very softly, right next to her,

“Ya could.”

Brandi sighed and let Fiona push her gently onto her back.

* * *

  
Fawnlock was bored. Bored and frustrated.

Ever since he started watching humans, he’d been solving the silly transgressions they got up to. In the past year, he’d solved several mysteries: he’d figured out who killed the man whose body was found in a lake; he’d found the boy whose disappearance in the forest led to so many loud people tramping through the eastern part of the woods (he’d put the poor child’s body someplace obvious to be found); and he’d prevented the murder of two women in a tent (who moaned far more than seemed necessary) when he threw a tree branch on a man in green and brown artificial fur and knocked him out, then encouraged some hogs to find the campsite—the resulting tumult as the hogs delighted in some unexpected food led the women to find the man outside and remove themselves from the area.

The most interesting case had come from the most annoying source: Moosecroft.

Fawnlock wasn’t sure what Moosecroft got up to all day, but it was very serious and almost certainly incredibly dull. His brother rarely left his comfortable treetop domain. When he and Moosecroft were first orphaned, Moosecroft led them deep into the forest and, with the help of some others of their kind, built them a rather magnificent house in a giant, ancient oak tree.

As soon as Fawnlock was old enough, he left the house as often as possible. Exploring the forest had led to his meeting Johnny Watson as a child and to subsequently finding and observing other humans. He quickly learned to keep his human observations clandestine, as otherwise, he would have to endure long lectures from Moosecroft.

For years he had lived away from the treehouse now, bedding down in grassy hollows or fallen trees when he absolutely had to sleep. (Sleep was tedious in the extreme).

But Moosecroft met up with him from time to time, usually just long enough to begin haranguing him about his activities and nagging him to return home before Fawnlock would manage to escape from him again.

One evening, Moosecroft caught up with Fawnlock hidden in the trees near a wide stream. Across the stream, a campsite had gone up in flames. Fawnlock was watching the trees catch and burn with fascination. He observed how the wind helped the sparks move, and he was cataloguing how the fire was beginning to create its own wind: a self-sustaining system.

Moosecroft grabbed his arm and dragged him away. His grip was hard enough to leave bruises that would last for two weeks, visible even beneath his fine fur. Fawnlock was furious; he’d never had the chance to observe a forest fire.

“Turn me loose, Moosecroft,” Fawnlock said in _mirli remna bangu_.

“I will not allow you to be killed by your insatiate curiosity, little brother.”

“I was perfectly safe. I may never get another chance to see this phenomenon from the beginning,” Fawnlock growled, twisting to try to free himself from Moosecroft’s unrelenting grip.

“You were mesmerized. You do not understand fire; it could have leapt the stream in moments.”

“I was fully aware of the danger and was prepared to remove myself from the area if necessary.”

“Be that as it may, there is something much more important happening, on which I need your help.”

“You need no help, brother mine. You are a kingdom unto yourself.”

Moosecroft ignored the jibe. “I am aware of your ill-advised, continued observation of the creatures. You were there when the fire began?”

“I was, until you interfered.”

“Do you know who started it?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you know if the creature that started it survived?”

“How can I? You pulled me away before I could see anything interesting happen.”

“Would you recognize the creature if you saw it?”

“Of course, I’m not an idiot.”

“I shall need you to identify it if it survives this fire.”

Fawnlock looked at Moosecroft sharply.

“To what purpose?”

“Never you mind, brother dear. You have made it clear you have no interest in that part of your birthright. Just alert me if the creature survives the fire and how to find it.”

“What’s in it for me?”

Moosecroft sighed. “I will cease monitoring your activities as you watch the creatures.”

“Not good enough. You will never let me be; you are not capable of not interfering.”

“Then what do you propose?”

Fawnlock did not hesitate. “You use your powers, whatever they are, to protect Johnny Watson.”

Moosecroft stared at him. Fawnlock glared back.

After a few minutes of silent war, Moosecroft nodded and let go of his brother’s arm.

“Very well. No harm will come to that child while he is in the realm of this forest.”

Fawnlock looked away to hide the relief in his eyes.

“I expect a result in three days,” Moosecroft said.

“You’ll have it by morning.”

Fawnlock kept his word; the arsonist had survived, and Fawnlock passed the information to Moosecroft via one of his brother’s minions and thought no more about it.

Because he could not yet read, he did not see the headline of _The Daily Echo_  in a campsite far from the one that burned, a week later:

**Suspected Arsonist in Fire at Campground Found Dead at Home  
Cause Unknown, Police Investigating**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
>   * _mirli remna bangu_ = Deer Person language
>   * Creature: Moosecroft is using this as a derogatory term for humans, which he considers a race inferior to the Deer People. 
> 

> 
> Thanks as always to [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/profile) for continuing to patiently fix all sorts of mistakes in my drafts. I went and got all fancy with Fiona's accent _after_ she gave the draft my blessing, so any mistakes are mine—and if the vernacular is ridiculous, know that she had NOTHING to do with it.
> 
> [The Daily Echo](http://www.dailyecho.co.uk/leisure/pubs/3759560.The_New_Forest_Inn__Emery_down/): I have been unable to find out, just from web searching, if this newspaper was around in the 1980s. If I get an answer from a local Hampshire library, I’ll update this with a proper newspaper name.
> 
> For the geography fans amongst you, I have located Johnny’s house in [Emery Down](https://maps.google.co.uk/maps/place?q=emery+down+england&ftid=0x48738ed9190a5d17:0xe5ff72a9deedb901), New Forest, Hampshire, England (turn on the satellite view and zoom out a bit to see the forest)


	8. Plans Are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moosecroft works at his minor forest position; Johnny gets a shock; Fawnlock wants to learn more about humans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, this is a better chapter because of the wise advice of [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/pseuds/Dammit_Clint). And as usual, I went off and made a pile of changes after her last read-through, so the mistake buck stops here. (With me.)

_30 March 1991_

  
On the second night of the full moon in March, Moosecroft stepped into the sacred clearing and sat by the Contact Pool. He took some time to settle himself, breathing deeply and slowly as he was taught: four counts in, eight counts out. He had not had to think about breathing this way, consciously, in many years; the rhythm was ingrained.

When he felt his mind clear, he shifted his awareness to the top of his skull and felt it buzzing. It was time. He focused his gaze on the reflection of the moon in the Contact Pool, continuing to breathe in the same slow, deliberate way. Within moments the image of the moon gave way to the face of his long-time ally, Moriarty. He was one of the Hyena People, and Moosecroft did not trust him, but he was reliable and their cause was the same.

“Mycroft.”

(Fawnlock was the only one who still called Moosecroft by the mangled name he’d given his brother as a child. “Your ears are huge! They look like those of a moose!” he’d exclaimed as soon as he could speak in full sentences.)

“Moriarty. You know what we must avenge.”

“Of course. I was wondering when we were going to deal with the fires.” Moriarty giggled, and Mycroft hid a wince.

“I’ve been otherwise occupied. Do you have a plan?”

“Yes. The Adder and I can create an earthquake. The faults are not in the right place to do the most damage, but we should be able to kill at least 15 or 20 of the humans.”

“Excellent. Where will it strike?”

“The Adder is at Lake Baikal; I am in Cypress. Easy enough to hit _Jumhūriyyat al-‘Irāq_  itself, right around _Baġdād_.”

“Time?”

“We can make it happen before the next moon.”

“Be sure that you do. This cannot go unpunished.”

“As you wish.” And Moriarty smiled his terrifying smile. Mycroft waved a hand and watched the water cloud and then return to a calm reflective surface.

* * *

  
Johnny sat down hastily at the dinner table, a bit out of breath.

“Sorry Mum, Da, practice went late.”

“S’ok, Johnny,” his dad said quietly while his mother helped his plate with bangers and mash. Johnny noticed that there was a lot more mash than bangers—one sausage, to be exact. His parents had a half-sausage each.

“What’s going on? Where’s Harry?” he asked, tucking into his potatoes.

“Harry left, lad.” Johnny’s dad looked at him sadly.

“What do you mean, ‘left’?”

“She up and went, Johnny,” his mother confirmed. “Took the car, the telly, the computer, Da’s wallet.”

“She did what now?” Johnny put down his fork carefully.

“Left a little note, she did,” she continued.

“Now Martha, let’s not get into that.”

“No, I think Johnny should hear this.” She leaned over to the worktop between the kitchen and dining area and plucked a folded, wrinkled piece of paper off.

_“‘Dear Tossers,’”_  she began to read.

_“‘Done with your wanking rules and lectures.’_  Lectures has the less common ‘lektchurs’ spelling. _‘Sod off. Taking my inheritance a bit early. Don’t look for me.’_ ”

Johnny watched his mother. She was furious; her face was red and her hand crumpled the paper as she held it.

“Martha, we did the best we could with the girl.”

“She’s no spawn of mine, I’ll tell you that for nothing. It’s little Johnny’s inheritance she took, the twat.” His mother clamped her hand over her mouth, and tears brimmed in her eyes.

Johnny visibly flinched to hear his mother curse.

“Johnny, things are going to be a little tight around here. Mrs. Hudson, bless her heart, said she’d give me a ride to the ranger station ‘til we can get a used car or maybe a scooter or something. But we can’t replace the computer, you’ll have to use the one in school. And there’s something else.” His father took a deep breath.

“She cleaned out our bank account,” his mother blurted. “Nothing left, no savings, nothing to live on ‘til your Da’s next paycheck.”

Johnny took a big swallow of milk.

“And the college fund?” He felt awful asking about his own welfare when his family had exploded around him, but he had to know.

His father looked down at his plate.

“Gone, lad. It’s all gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” his mother said, putting her hand over Johnny’s on the table and swallowing back a sob. “We wanted better for you.”

Johnny felt a calm wash over him. It was obvious what he’d have to do.

“Not a problem. When I finish out this year, I’ll join the army. They take you at 16.”

“Not an option,” his father said, looking fierce.

“It’s perfect, Da. They’ll put me through medical school, like we’ve been talking about. No cost. And I can send home money.”

“We’ll not take money from you, son.”

“And I’ll not see my only child in the military,” his mother choked out. “I won’t lose you as well.”

Johnny nodded and started eating methodically.

* * *

_3 April 1991_

  
Hidden by the trees, but near Johnny’s tent, Fawnlock practiced walking. The trainers felt alien upon his feet, and the trousers rubbed uncomfortably in strange places.

He was wearing an aubergine shirt that was too small for him and gray trousers, both of which he’d nicked from a campsite. The trainers were from Johnny’s tent, as was the knit cap that he pulled down tight over his black curls and the antler buds that were just starting to come in.

He tromped around in the damp leaves mouldering from last autumn. It was impossible to walk with his usual grace and silence. The shoes flopped about on his feet, and the trousers pinched, and his head was getting hot. He grumbled, took a deep breath, and stumbled about again with determination.

When he felt he had the hang of it, he pulled off the irritating artificial furs and stuffed them into a canvas carryall he’d taken from another campsite.  He then made his way by back paths to the nearby human settlement where he’d seen the building with all the bound leaf piles.

He was going to find out once and for all what it was that fascinated Johnny about those things.

Of course, the challenge of passing as a human amongst other humans only sweetened the deal. It was something he’d been thinking about for years: if he was able to play at being human, maybe he could talk to Johnny again.

When he came to the outskirts of the village, he pulled on his human costume again. Walking carefully and swinging his arms as he’d seen humans do, he made his way down the road to the little brick building. He watched some humans push on the door to enter and then did the same.

The room was dark compared to the bright sun outside, and he blinked rapidly while his eyes adjusted. The walls were lined with bound leaf bundles in all different colors. He felt himself trembling with nerves and firmly told himself to stop being ridiculous. Looking around, he spied a human sitting at a wooden contraption similar to the one Johnny had in his room. The man smiled at him in a friendly way, so he walked carefully over.

“Hello, may I help you today?”

Fawnlock saw one of the bundles of leaves open on the thing the man was leaning upon. He pointed to it and looked at the man expectantly.

_ko ciksi ti mi .i mi nitcu co jimpe le pilno tadji_ , Fawnlock said in a determined voice.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Do you know any English?”

Fawnlock thought and drew upon the words he had picked up from watching Johnny and random campers.

“Book. Help. Fawnlock?”

“Would you like to read a book?”

Fawnlock wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t seem right. He picked up the book and pointed vigorously at the displayed leaves.

“Book. Help?”

The librarian gently took the book back from Fawnlock.

“Do you want to learn how to read?”

Fawnlock stared at him.

The librarian started reading slowly, pointing to the words as he went.

“The River Bank,” he read. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.” He pointed to the mole and the rat in the drawing and said “Mole. Rat.”

“Mohl,” Fawnlock repeated.

“Mole,” the librarian pointed at the picture of Mole. He repeated “Mole” and pointed at the word.

Nights of watching Johnny stare at the leaf piles, sometimes saying words, suddenly clicked in Fawnlock’s head.

“ _Mohl_ ,” he said, pointing to the picture. “Mohl.” He pointed to the word.

“Yes, yes! These are words.”

“Wurdz.”

“Would you like to join one of our reading groups? We have two; one meets during the day, one on weekends.”

Fawnlock understood more than he could speak, and he understood the world “group”.

“No. Group. No.” He began to back away.

“Okay, no group. That’s fine.” The librarian spread his hands to look harmless, and Fawnlock stopped moving but stood a few steps back, watching warily.

“Do you have a library card? Of course you don’t. And you’re too shy for reading group. I tell you what.” The librarian stood up and, keeping his hands palms-up, walked slowly past Fawnlock to the library doors.

That was it; he’d failed. This human must have figured out what he was, and he was kicking him out.

“C’mon, let me show you.” The librarian beckoned the strange young man in the knit cap until he was joined outside.

“See that teahouse, right over there? Meet me on Saturday, at noon, and I’ll teach you how to read. If you’re serious about it.”

Fawnlock looked across the green at the white building.

“Saturday...oh dear, I don’t know what the term is for Saturday in whatever language you speak. Three days from now, right?” The librarian pointed at the sun, then swung his arm in a circle that went to the horizon, around the ground, and back up again. Then he held up three fingers.

“Three days. At noon,” and he pointed to the sun directly above them.

Fawnlock nodded. This human wanted to talk to him some more in three days at that building over there, when the sun was above them. He hadn’t given up on Fawnlock. There was still hope.

“I’ll bring a book, and I’ll try to teach you to read, okay?”

Fawnlock nodded again, turned away abruptly, and walked back down the road.

“You’re welcome!” the librarian called to him. He walked back into the library, shaking his head. What had he gotten himself into? He settled back into the chair at the reference desk where a small line of children were waiting. Why did the teachers all assign term papers at the same time? He adjusted his nameplate on the desk, smiled wide, and beckoned the first in line forward.

The child ignored the nameplate, which read “G. Lestrade”.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _ko ciksi ti mi .i mi nitcu co jimpe le pilno tadji_ = You! explain this to me. I need to understand how to use [it]
> 
>  
> 
> **References:**
> 
>  
> 
> The moment when Moosecroft knows he is ready to communicate through the Contact Pool is when he feels his [Sahasarara](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chakra#Sahasrara) or “Crown” Chakra activating. Note that I am not endorsing or refuting the concept of chakras.
> 
> The fires that Moosecroft and Moriarty refer to are the Kuwaiti oil fires, set by retreating Iraqi troops, according to [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuwaiti_oil_fires).
> 
> Jumhūriyyat al-‘Irāq is the Romanized Arabic name for Iraq, according to [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iraq), and Baġdād is the Romanized Arabic name for Baghdad, also according to [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baghdad).
> 
> The book Lestrade the Librarian reads from is Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, with classic illustrations by Robin Lawrie; the quote and picture are from page one in the 1994 Puffin Classics edition; Penguin Books, England. (Yes, this edition didn’t exist at the time this story is taking place, but the pictures are the classic pictures that I remember from the 70s so it’s all good.)
> 
>  
> 
> **Places:**
> 
>  
> 
> The village Fawnlock visits is Lyndhurst; the library is the [Lyndhurst Library](https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lyndhurst-Library-Hampshire/444029429024395), one of the closest libraries to Emery Down, where Johnny lives.
> 
> I don’t have a map of Lyndhurst from 1991, so I don’t know if a tea house would have been across a green from the community center that houses the library, but I’m pretending there would have been one like this: Lyndhurst Tea House ([picture](https://www.google.com/maps/uv?hl=en&pb=!1s0x487388d7213f1e19:0x85aa232ea752cf56!2m5!2m2!1i80!2i80!3m1!2i100!3m1!7e1!4shttps://plus.google.com/105551887121125699128/photos?hl%3Den%26socfid%3Dweb:lu:kp:placepageimage%26socpid%3D1!5sthe+lyndhurst+tea+house+hampshire+-+Google+Search&sa=X&ei=j9g5VOb7A7D1igLT94HIDg&ved=0CHUQoiowCg)) ([web page](http://www.lyndhurstteahouse.co.uk/))
> 
> Also, credit goes to my partner R for help in coming up with Mycroft's ritual, and to [spudqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spudqueen/pseuds/spudqueen) for helping me realize that Moriarty _had_ to be a Hyena Person. I mean c'mon, that _giggle_.


	9. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawnlock is learning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with fantastic art from [startingwiththeridingcrop](http://startingwiththeridingcrop.tumblr.com/)! (Click for larger version)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

_March-April 1991_

  
The night Harry “moved out,” Johnny stopped sleeping in his tent. He was intensely worried about his parents and felt like he needed to stay as close to them as possible.

Fawnlock watched Johnny sleep every night through his window, bewildered.

For a couple of weeks, girls would still show up at the tent at night, but that tapered off quickly as word got around.

Fawnlock hid in the tent during the day, burrowing under the sleeping bag, which started smelling less and less like Johnny. By the time he emerged from the tent at dusk, the pillow would be soaked with tears.

* * *

  
Greg Lestrade watched as the young teen entered the tea shop hesitantly and looked around. He hurried to Greg’s table as soon as he spotted the librarian and sat down awkwardly, fidgeting in the seat.

“Hi, it’s good to see you again!” Greg put on his warmest smile. The kid seemed incredibly nervous, but something made Greg want to open the door to reading for this shy creature from a foreign land.

“Haiii,” the kid said slowly.

“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Greg. What’s your name?” He held out his hand, and when the kid just stared at it, he pulled it back as nonchalantly as he could.

Feeling a bit of an idiot, he tried again, pointing at himself and then the teen. “Me, Greg. You…?”

The pointing seemed to work. “Faaahn-lock.”

“Fawnlock? That’s an interesting name. Hello, Fawnlock. Lovely to meet you.

“I checked out a book for us to work with today. I know this book is for little kids, but I think it’s an okay place to start out. Don’t want to start too hard and get discouraged, right?”

There was no response, so Greg pulled out the book and opened it on the small table, moving his tea out of the way. A hostess appeared beside them.

“Would the gentleman like some tea? Perhaps a pastry, or some biscuits?”

Fawnlock jumped in his chair and got his legs tangled under the table as he tried to stand up. He was clearly panicking.

“Thanks, no, we’re fine for now, thanks very much,” Greg said quickly, so she shrugged slightly and left them.

“It’s okay, Fawnlock. You’re safe here. No need to worry, I shan’t let anything happen to you.” Greg gazed at Fawnlock for a moment. He was breathing fast, and Greg thought he could see his heart pounding under the too-tight silk shirt he wore.

“Where are you from, love? You must have quite a story to tell,” he murmured quietly. “Let’s take a look at this book, shall we?”

Fawnlock looked down at the book on the table, which was opened to the title page.

“Where the Wild Things Are,” Greg read slowly, pointing to each word as he went. “Story and pictures by Maurice Sendak. Now you try.”

“Where…” He waited until Fawnlock repeated the word. “Wair.”

“The…”

“Thuh…”

“Wild…”

“Wai-uhld…”

They continued on through the tale of little Max and his adventures. It took about a half-hour to make it through the book. Fawnlock’s brow was furrowed as he concentrated harder than Greg had ever seen a student do before.

“Now here I have something for you to take home. This is the alphabet. Let’s go through it, and then you can practice it at home.” Greg pulled out a colorful sheet of laminated paper with letters and corresponding objects on it. He looked around the tea shop; it was empty, aside from the hostess, who was very busy polishing spoons and pretending not to watch them. Well, in for a penny, Greg thought.

“I have a song that will help you remember. Okay? Here goes.” He began to sing the alphabet song.

Fawnlock looked up from where he’d been studying the sheet of letters, startled, and watched Greg sing with wide eyes. Feeling foolish, Greg sang it through twice, spotting the hostess hiding a grin behind her hand. He shot her a glare.

“Now you help me. Ready? A, B, C, D…” He had to start it several times, gesturing at Fawnlock encouragingly, before Fawnlock figured it out and began singing with him. The first time through, he was a half-beat behind on each letter.

The second time through, he sang it right with Greg. The third time he did it solo.

“Well done, lad, well done! You catch on quick, you do.” Greg beamed at the youngster, and Fawnlock let a shy smile emerge for a moment.

“Now, listen here. You can take this book with you to practice on this week, but it’s checked out to me, mind, so you bring it back here next Saturday in just the condition it is now. Understand?”

Fawnlock just stared at Greg. He sighed. Well, the book cost only a few pounds. The kid was so eager, it seemed worth the risk. He threw some money on the table, adding a large tip since they’d taken up a table for an hour for a single cup of tea, and stood up. Fawnlock clumsily scraped his chair back loudly and stood up with him.

“Come on, now, Librarian Lestrade has other things to do than sit and teach the likes of you. We’ll meet up here next week, yeah? Seven days.” Greg held up seven fingers, and Fawnlock nodded. Greg made an aborted move to put his hand on Fawnlock’s back to usher him out; perhaps it was early days for that kind of friendly gesture with someone so timid.

* * *

  
The moment Fawnlock was in the forest, he pulled the carryall from where he’d hidden it behind a big rock and gently laid the one shiny, colorful leaf and the bundle of bound leaves—er, the _book_ —in the bag. He shed his artificial fur as fast as he could, tossed the restrictive articles aside carelessly, and lay down on his back in the grass, sighing with relief and stretching all of his limbs. Then he rolled onto his stomach and reached back, ruefully rubbing at his bruised tail. The lower garment was particularly distressing. He rolled back over and stared up at the sky between the trees, lightly stroking his _pinji_  which had been so cramped for so long. How did Johnny do it, wearing these horrible things every day? It was absolute torture.

The tutorial had been torture, too. Not only was it boringly obvious, once he understood the pattern of repeating what the book-human said, but it was also terrifyingly filled with the constant opportunity for failure. He’d better pick up on this al-fa-beht thing pretty quickly if he didn’t want to die of the tedium.

“ _ay, bee, cee, dee…_ ” he sang softly to himself, unaware that he was smiling.

 

* * *

_End of May 1991_

  
Summer was almost fully upon the forest the day that Fawnlock heard noises from where he was lying listlessly in the tent. He sat up quickly and his nose confirmed that Johnny was approaching. His enhanced senses gave him time to bolt for the trees before Johnny was in sight of the tent, and he stood behind some pines, trembling. Hoping.

Johnny was carrying a bag on his shoulder.

“Okay, ‘forest’, so, uh, I’m off.” Johnny shuffled his foot in the grass. “Shit, this feels stupid,” he added _sotto voce_.

“Yeah, so, I’m going to be gone for a long time, maybe forever. I dunno. Just...y’know...um, don’t do anything bad to the house or the garden, yeah? My folks don’t have much any more. I mean, like, even less than they used to.”

He stared down at his feet for a long time. Fawnlock watched from a few yards away, unseen in the shadows.

“I don’t know if I made this up when I was little or what. But I kinda remember meeting someone once, when I was real small. Someone…'Fawn-'...something. Yeah. Well, if that was real, and it happened, and you’re still out there….um….take care of yourself, okay?”

Johnny nodded once to himself, still looking at his new, stiff Army boots, then turned and strode back to the house. He didn’t look back.

Fawnlock stared at the path through the trees where Johnny had walked away, and he kept staring for hours after he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Lestrade loans Fawnlock is, of course, _Where the Wild Things Are_ , story and pictures by Maurice Sendak. I snagged the text from Amazon’s “look inside” service [http://www.amazon.com/Where-Wild-Things-Maurice-Sendak/dp/0064431789].  
> Thanks as always to the wonderful [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/pseuds/Dammit_Clint), who makes this work so much more grammatically correct! 
> 
>  
> 
> Note that I have never tried to teach anyone to read before. I suspect that this is not at all the best approach, but it's Sherlock, after all, so have faith. (Librarian Lestrade hasn't led any of the reading groups, he's doing his best!)


	10. Life Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny learns what it means to be in the army; Fawnlock pines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks, as always, to [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/pseuds/Dammit_Clint) for her impeccable beta work! I made a lot of changes after her last viewing so I have only me to blame for any mistakes.

_25 August 1991_

  
Mycroft watched the Contact Pool shimmer into an image of Moriarty and the star-strewn sky behind him.

“Why did it take so long?” the Deer Person asked coldly.

“We did our best, but we weren’t strong enough to cause the earthquake. We had to get help.”

“Whom, _exactly_ , did you bring into this? You know the rules. Absolutely no one outside the Council is to know about any of this. _What did you do?_ ”

“Relax, it’s someone who should be in the _girzu_  anyway. The strongest of the Bear People, a fine fellow named Moran.”

“ _Moran_? You let _Moran_  know what we do?”

“Ah, you’ve heard of him! Then you know he’s just the sort we need with us from now on. Immense power. The three of us caused a nice little disruption.”

“In the _wrong place_. You were off by over 300 kilometres.”

“You know earth movements don’t always go exactly as intended. The faults were...not quite where we thought they were. But we got the job done.”

Mycroft sighed. It was true, retribution had been visited upon the people of Iraq for setting the terrible, atmosphere-damaging oil fires in Kuwait. But he was extremely disturbed to hear that Moriarty had broken one of the Sacred Directives. In 500 years, the Council had never let anyone outside know their business. That Moriarty could casually bring in someone who was decidedly _not_  meant for the Council, that he could share their secret duties with an outsider...it meant that Moriarty could no longer be trusted. Possibly Adler, as well, seeing as she had participated in working with this Moran. He would have to think about what the consequences to Moriarty would be. Removing someone from the Council was very difficult and had ramifications. In the meantime, Moran would have to be contained.

“Did he know what he was doing?”

“Only that we were causing mischief, not the whys and wherefores thereof. You worry too much, Mycroft. You’ll start stunting those pretty horns of yours.” Moriarty licked his lips subtly, but the lechery was obvious to Mycroft.

“I’ll be in touch.” Mycroft closed the Contact abruptly. It was time to contact Joaquin, the Seal Person. Was he in Argentina or Antarctica this time of year? Mycroft sighed; perhaps it could wait until the next full moon. That would give him time to decide on a course of action.

A sharp wind blew through the green oak leaves surrounding the Contact Pool, startling sleeping birds in the still summer night.

* * *

  
[postmarked Lyndhurst, 6 September, 1991]

Dearest Johnny:

We haven’t heard from you since you left two weeks ago! We know you’re very busy in training but drop us a line sometime and let us know that you’re okay.

We’ve applied for a loan to help us pay some of the bills. Mrs. Hudson’s been so nice, letting us go late on our rent, but it’s not enough to make ends meet. Maybe the bank can help.

I would’ve made jam-filled biscuits, I know they’re your favorite, but I was worried the jam would get all over in the post so I’m sending spice instead. Let me know if there’s anything else you need and we’ll try to send it along.

All our love,

Mum and Da

 

[postmarked AFC Harrogate, 8 September 1991]

Dear Mum and Da:

Basic training is about what I expected. It’s exhausting and frustrating and the food is pants, but I think I’ll make it. The trick is just not to get upset. I get that they want to break us down and build us up again; it’s just a mind game. Nothing the drill instructor has said can compete with the things Harry used to call me, so I guess she did me a good turn, eh?

I didn’t realize just how disgusting living with a bunch of other boys could be. Good job I wasn’t in boarding school! A fellow called Bill Murray bunks next to me, helps keep me sane. His brother was through here a few years ago so he knows the ins n outs. We had meatloaf tonight, but I have no idea what was in it; it surely wasn’t meat. At least there’s always pudding and it’s usually fairly decent.

Instructor went real hard on a fellow today, Stamford, said some nasty things to him about his weight. He’s a good chap, tries real hard, but he’s not the most athletic fellow. Bill ‘n me’ve been coaching him a little after dinner. I think he likes the company more than the extra running.

Hope your loan comes through! Could you send some ginger beer? They don’t have any on the base. They’ve set the date for parents’ day: September 28. It’s a Saturday. Hope you can come!

Luv, Johnny

 

[postmarked Lyndhurst, 10 September 1991]

Dearest Johnny:

So glad to hear you’ve made a friend. I made a double-batch of ginger biscuits so you can share them. Are you getting enough sleep? I hope your drill instructor isn’t being too hard on you. If he is, you just tell him to see your Da, he’ll set him straight. Remember what we read together in “Desiderata”: “Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.” Do your best to avoid anyone unpleasant.

It’s good that you’re being nice to this Stamford boy. You always have had a good heart. You’re making us so proud, you know. I wish you could’ve gone to university like you wanted; I’ll always regret that we couldn’t give you that.

[In a more angular hand] Son, you do whatever your instructor tells you to and keep your nose clean. We’re rooting for you back here.

Love,

Mum and Da

* * *

  
Fawnlock didn’t show up for his reading lesson the week after he got the book. He watched from the edge of the village as the book man went into the building and then exited a good while later. He watched the next Saturday and the next, too, and then the book man didn’t come to the building any more.

Fawnlock had memorized the book. He could sing the alphabet song backwards and forwards. The whimsical pictures in the book helped him understand the story, and he was utterly bored by its childishness. But he was too angry to have anything to do with the humans. _His_  human had left him. Johnny was the entire reason he wanted to know anything about the humans in the first place. When he vanished, Fawnlock saw no reason to continue his study.

He spent his days wandering aimlessly in the forest, noting this year’s patterns of disease in trees, watching the social behavior of the animals and the birds, and avoiding Moosecroft. Nothing held his attention; everything in nature was immediately understandable, no mystery, no puzzles. There was a dark time where he huddled inside a hollowed log during an extended storm, not eating for three days. He forgot to drink, too, which led to delirium, which in turn led to a humiliating experience with Moosecroft dragging him out of the log and forcing water into him from a nearby stream.

“Fawnlock. Come back home. It is time for you to grow up and take your place amongst our people.”

Fawnlock coughed and choked on the water and shook his head violently. Rain flew from his growing antlers and spattered Moosecroft in the face.

“There’s nothing to keep you here. The young human let you down, as I knew he would. Come home, and I will provide you with things to keep your mind busy.”

“Fuck you, Moosecroft. I’m not that desperate.”

“You cannot even stand upright without my assistance.”

“Irrelevant.”

“I’m frightened for you, Fawnlock.”

“You’ve never been frightened a day in your life, and you certainly don’t care about me. You just want to look good before the other _mirli remna_ , show that you can keep your younger brother in line.”

The two stared at each other as Moosecroft continued to cup water in his hand and feed it to Fawnlock.

“If you won’t come home, what will you do with yourself?”

“I’m learning to read. I’m learning human-speech. I know more than you already.” That was an exaggeration—Moosecroft undoubtedly understood more human-speak than Fawnlock did, but he was fairly sure Moosecroft couldn’t read.

“Not this human business again! I thought you’d learned! Humans are a blight on this earth; they bring nothing but pain and suffering. _Remember what they did to our parents._ ”

“All the more reason to study them, then.” Fawnlock stood up slowly until his legs were steady under him, and then he turned and walked away from Moosecroft. Slowly, but with dignity.

Once he was out of sight of his hated brother, he found a berry bush and fell upon it, stuffing berries into his mouth, well aware that he had let himself get into a state where he almost hadn’t been able to refuse the order to return home.

* * *

[postmarked Lyndhurst, 16 September 1991]

Dearest Johnny:

Hope your training is going well! There was a young woman who came round today, asking after you. Sandy? Do you remember her? I’d never seen her, but then you never did bring your girlfriends around to meet us, did you? Said she’d like to see you when you get home. I told her I didn’t know when that would be.

The leaves are turning in the forest. They’re so beautiful. Is your old tent still out back in the woods? Do you want us to take it in? Your Da could fold it up nice and store it in the attic.

I’m so sorry to say this, but we won’t be able to come up to parents day. Your Da has to work on Saturday, he’s taking extra shifts to try to make ends meet. We didn’t get the loan. I’m afraid I don’t have the money for the petrol to make the trip myself. But we’ll be thinking of you that day and every day, you can bet on that, love.

I’m sending some shortbread biscuits; you’ll have to let me know if they survive as anything more than crumbs.

All our love,

Mum and Da

* * *

The Saturday after his confrontation with Mooscroft, Fawnlock wrapped a long strip of artificial fur, that he’d stolen from Johnny’s tent, around his forehead and his antlers; the hat no longer fit. He made his way to the village and walked into the book building again. The book man was at the wooden table-thing, as usual. Fawnlock placed his book on the leaf-strewn surface; he’d managed to protect it from the storm in the canvas bag in a tree, and it was in fairly good shape.

“I need a book, better,” he said haltingly.

“Fawnlock, it’s good to see you! I’d given up on you—and on this, thanks for bringing it back. You want a ‘book better’—you want a better book? Maybe a better story, one suited for a teenager?”

Fawnlock nodded.

The book man smiled.

“I was hoping you’d come back. I have a book you might like better.” He held up a colourful book that had what appeared to be a worm on the cover.

“Biology experiments for children,” he read slowly, pointing to each word. “What’s better, is I have something to help you learn the words.”

The book man held up a thing that Fawnlock recognized. Johnny used to put part of it on his head while he sat at his wooden table-thing, and sometimes he danced around a bit wearing it.

“This is a tape recording of the book. You can listen to it as you read along.” The book man stood up, walked around the table-thing, and reached towards Fawnlock’s head, who immediately jerked back.

“Now now, I’m sure you’ve used these before. Can I take off this wrap, or is it some kind of religious thing?”

“No take!”

“Okay, we can just put the headset around the back of your head, like this…”

Fawnlock finally allowed the book man to perch the fuzzy black things against the side of his head. Then he did something to the other piece and suddenly someone else was talking to Fawnlock, very close. He turned around quickly, but no one was there!

The book man chuckled. “Have you really never used a tape player before? Okay, look. When you press this button, it stops.” He pressed his finger to the black box and the voice went away.

“Press this button, and it starts. Here, you try.” The book man took Sherlock’s hand and pushed his fingertip against a piece of the box. It clicked, and the voice began again. Ah, somehow that was controlling the voice. The box did some sort of magic that made someone talk. The book man pushed his finger against a different piece of the box, and the voice stopped.

“Now, this is a little trickier. If you want to go forwards or backwards, you’ll need to use these two buttons, here.” The book man pushed something and the box whirred. He pushed the bit that made the voice come on and opened the book to the first page.

“Biology is a science that any child can study in their own backyard,” the voice said. Fawnlock recognized a few of the words, and he realized the voice was reading out the book. The book man pushed the bit of the box—no, the _button_ —that stopped the voice, and Fawnlock looked up at him, betrayed.

“Not stop!”

“No, wait, I need to show this to you. She just said ‘Biology is a science that any child can study,’ right? Now, what if you want to hear it again? You push this button and it rewinds, and you can hear it again.” The book man made the box whirr again, then pushed the voice button.

“Biology is a science…”

“Oh!” Fawnlock gasped. It was like a book, but spoken. He could make it start and stop, and make it go backwards, and presumably, forwards. He grinned broadly.

“Speech book!”

“Yes, that’s what it is, a speech book! Well, we call them audiobooks.”

“Ah-dee-oh book.”

“Yes, yes! Exactly! You can take that with you, since you proved you can be trusted to bring things back. What do you say, shall we meet again next Saturday at the tea shop?”

“Meet next Saturday, yes, tee-shawp.” Fawnlock clutched the black audio book box to his chest.

* * *

  
[postmarked AFC Harrogate, 26 September 1991]

Dear Mum and Da:

Thanks for the all the care packages! I always share the cookies with all the boys, but the ginger beer is just for me.

I’m sorry you won’t be able to come to parents day, but don’t worry about it too much. I know Da tried to get time off. My mate Bill says that it can make everything worse, parents day, reminding you of home. It would be nice if you could make it to the pass out parade, but I’ll understand if you can’t. They say if I put in 6 months phase one training then I can start training to be a medic. They’ll pay for me to take night classes, too, so it’s all blue skies, yeah? I’m so glad I joined up, this was the best decision I ever made. I hope I’ll make you proud.

Luv,

Johnny

 

[postmarked Lyndhurst, 15 October 1991]

Dearest Johnny:

We haven’t heard from you in a while. Are you doing okay? How is training going? Are you getting enough to eat?

I’ve taken a job serving at the New Forest Inn. It’s quite interesting, getting to meet all different sorts who come to stay here! Mostly they come to see the forest or to see where Arthur Conan Doyle stayed when he was writing his book. Your Da is still working extra shifts. The money you’ve been sending has been quite a help, ta, but make sure you keep enough for your own needs, love.

The days are getting shorter and the air has taken on a chill. Fall is upon us once again. I wish you could see the colours of the leaves out back. I know you always loved the forest.

Write us when you can, love. We miss you so much.

Love,

Mum and Da

 

[postmarked AFC Harrogate, 27 October 1991]

Dear Mum and Da:

No offense but I’m glad you didn’t come to parents day. It was just like Bill said, some of the lads lost their balance after seeing their folks.

I’m sorry I don’t write much, but your letters are so appreciated. I know you write ‘em every day but sometimes they come in clumps. I guess army mail isn’t the best.

I’m tired all the time but I think I’m getting stronger. I was second through the obstacle course today!

Hope you’re well. Luv Johnny

 

[sent 18 December 1991 with a big package]

Dearest Johnny:

Happy Christmas, love! I’ve sent enough Christmas cookies for your whole barracks and a cake as well. Not much money this year for presents, but I’ve knitted you a scarf that you can wear on cold days.

Looking forward to your call on the holiday, dear. We’ll be home all day.

All our love,

Mum and Da

 

 

[sent 26 January 1991  
On the back of a postcard with a photo of the gate sign, reading “Army Foundation College Harrogate: Initial Training Group]

Mum and Da—  
One more week and I’m out. It’s okay that you won’t be up for the pass out, I’ll send you a picture. Bill’s a good lad, said he’d take one.

Luv Johnny  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of fiction. I do not believe that the people killed in the 1991 earthquake in Arbil, Iraq, deserved it; it was a tragedy unrelated to any actions on the part of any humans.
> 
> Translation:
> 
> _girzu_  = group (Council), which is short for:  
>  _terdi jitro girzu_  = World Nature Council (literally: Earth control group)  
>  _mirli remna_ = Deer People
> 
> Johnny’s army training:
> 
> Yeah, I’m winging it here, folks. His training in this story is based on the fact that in 1991, the British Army accepted recruits at 16 years of age; the rest is based on current information about training which may not be accurate for 1991 Recruits 17 or under take [Phase I training at AFC Harrogate](http://www.armyrecruitpack.co.uk/phase-1-training/), regardless of the branch they will be going into later.
> 
> The book Fawnlock borrows next is this: [_Biology Experiments for Children_](http://www.amazon.com/Biology-Experiments-Children-Childrens-Science/dp/048622032X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1415001266&sr=1-1&keywords=biology+children+dover) by Ethel Hanauer.


	11. Under the Scarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawnlock continues to learn; Lestrade the Librarian also learns something; Johnny is becoming John; and Mycroft solicits help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, International Animal Person speech (which is the same as Deer Person language, as they have been the ruling sect for centuries) will be denoted in **bold** to eliminate the need for difficult-to-read translation. (Well, it will in some places. And not in others. I’m fickle.)
> 
> Now with art from the fabulous [startingwiththeridingcrop](http://theridingcropsart.tumblr.com/)!

_October 1991_

  
The Book Man’s tape player was quite effective. Fawnlock could feel connections being made; a language was forming in his brain. Conversations he had overheard in his years of spying on human camping grounds were mixing with the words he was learning in books.

“I need more advanced book,” he told the Book Man at the book building the next Saturday, without preamble.

“And hello to you too! Wow, your speech is much clearer.”

“Yes. I found this button,” Fawnlock held up the tape player to demonstrate. “It makes audio book that not go back to start.”

“Ah, that’s the radio button. It turns on radio stations, you know, broadcasts over radio waves?” Lestrade frowned a bit at Fawnlock’s continued incomprehension. Must be the language barrier. Although, the kid did act as though he’d never seen a tape player in his life. Weird.

“I see,” Lestrade said, examining the player. “You have it tuned to the talk channel. That’s not a bad idea, it must be helping you assimilate the language. Don’t suppose you’re ready to tell me where you’re from, are you?”

Now Fawnlock frowned. “I am from here.”

“Okay.” Still too many language gaps, obviously. “I picked out another book, hoping you’d come back! It’s a step up from the children’s books. It’s appropriate for young adults like yourself. It’s called ‘The Wind in the Door,’ and it has an audio track as well. Shall I put the tape in for you?”

When Fawnlock just stared at him, Lestrade went ahead and changed out the tapes. Fawnlock watched, fascinated. As soon as the tape was in, he ejected it as he’d seen Lestrade do; he inspected it for a minute before placing it back in. He tilted his head as he did this, and his scarf fell a bit.

“Oh, your wrap there, it’s coming loose—” Lestrade stopped talking as a large, fuzzy ear popped out from under the cloth. “What is _that_?”

Fawnlock glanced up and saw where Lestrade was staring. He put his hand up, felt what had gone wrong, turned and bolted.

“Wait, you forgot your new book!” Lestrade grabbed the book and the tape player and ran after him.

He caught up at the edge of the forest, panting. Fawnlock was standing almost entirely behind a tree, clutching at it.

“Fawnlock, what’s going on? What have you got under that scarf?”

Fawnlock edged from behind the tree a bit.

“Knew could not last. Moosecroft will be angry.”

“Knew what couldn’t last? What are you talking about? Look lad, why don’t you just tell me what’s up and we’ll sort it out together?”

Fawnlock stepped out and slowly unwound his scarf.

“Cor, would you look at that. What is that, some kind of costume?”

“It is me.”

Lestrade covered his mouth with his hand and stared at Fawnlock. He’d read the local folklore, of course; hell, he’d put the local history section together himself at the library. Some of the oral history had folks his grandparents’ age talking about _their_  grandparents’ stories of creatures that were half-man, half-deer in New Forest. They were part of the colourful panoply of New Forest history, a more lighthearted mythology than the reality of some of the gruesome hunts with hounds by the original landowners.

But the stories _weren’t real_. They couldn’t be. There was no way that there was some species of mammal living here in New Forest that hadn’t long since been discovered and categorized by science. Was there?

Lestrade stepped forward, slowly, until he was standing in front of Fawnlock. He held out his hand.

“May I?”

Fawnlock nodded, once, wariness in his big blue-green eyes. Lestrade gently touched the tip of Fawnlock’s ear and gasped a bit. He stroked one fingertip along an antler prong that was smooth, strong bone. The light touch made Fawnlock twitch his head.

“You’re not having me on?”

“It is me, Book Man. This is me.”

Lestrade smiled. “‘Book Man.’ Makes sense. I’m called a librarian, Fawnlock. It comes from the Latin _libarius_ , which means ‘relating to books.’”

“Librarian,” Fawnlock repeated. “Librarian.”

“And what are you? A...deer person, maybe?”

Fawnlock considered.

“Deer Person. Yes, close to what we say in our language.”

“In your language? You have a language?”

_la'a sai se bangu doi bebna_ (“Of course we have a language, idiot!”)

“How long have you been here?”

“I be in this forest twenty-six, uh, _years_.”

“Twenty-six?! I thought you were about seventeen years old!”

“I am thirty-two years. Deer Person live longer than human.”

“Well, I meant how long have you, uh, Deer People been in the forest?”

Fawnlock blinked.

“Since the forest.”

“Always?”

“Yes, always.”

“Okay then. Right. Well.” Lestrade absorbed all this for some moments. Fawnlock watched him calmly.

“It was very brave of you to come and find me!”

“I want to learn read book. Johnny read. I want to know what book is.”

“Johnny? Who’s Johnny?”

“Johnny.” Fawnlock pointed vaguely in the general direction of Johnny’s house, about a kilometer away in the next village over. “Blond hair. Nice smell. Lots of mating.”

“Uh, he’s your boyfriend?”

“What is boyfriend?”

“Um...someone you, uh, mate with.”

“No, no mate with Fawnlock. Mate with other humans. Lot of humans.”

“Okay, so he’s a kid you know who gets around. Is he your friend?”

Fawnlock looked down at the ground. “Not friend.”

“But he’s someone who inspired you to read?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

“Gone.”

“What, he’s not at home?”

“No, gone. Gone for weeks. Gone for good.”

“Ah, he must’ve gone off to school.”

Fawnlock looked so upset that Lestrade reached out and patted his arm, tentatively.

“They come back, you know. They always do.”

“Librarian: now you know I am Deer Person, what you do?”

“Well, I don’t know that it should change much. Although it’s probably pretty dangerous for you to come into town when you can’t wear a hat to hide your...um, ears. Ahhh, no antlers in the winter, eh? That’s why you’re wearing this new scarf. Right. How about when you have the antlers, I come meet you here instead? We can keep studying reading; that doesn’t have to stop. You’re an excellent student.”

“Of course I am.”

“Ha! And modest, too. Well, here. Here is the tape player and this week’s book. Huh, no wonder you didn’t know what a tape player is, or what radio is...looks like we’ll need to do a little cultural education as well, eh? No worries, I can handle that. It’s refreshing to be around a student who actually wants to learn. I think maybe I need to get you a waterproof bag to keep your things in. May I meet you here tomorrow, at noon?”

“Noon?” Fawnlock pointed straight up in the sky to check his understanding.

“Yes, when the sun is directly above us, noon. I think I need to get you a watch and teach you about time-keeping.”

“Tomorrow, noon. Yes. Fawnlock be here.”

“Okay, I’ll see you here tomorrow. Have a good evening, Fawnlock.” Lestrade turned away reluctantly and started back into the village. There was so much he wanted to ask the boy! But he felt he had pushed him as far as he could for the day. It must have been so alarming for him, to be revealed. In fact, Lestrade felt pretty privileged to have been allowed to touch Fawnlock at all. He grinned to himself as he walked back through the town to the library. This extra-curricular tutoring was getting interesting.

[ ](http://users.digitalkingdom.org/~daltong/fanfic/images/fawnlock-and-greg.jpg)

* * *

_February 1992_

  
There was nothing special about the day Johnny turned seventeen. Life at the Defense Medical Services Training Centre, at least for new recruits in Phase 2 of training, wasn’t all that different from Phase 1 at Harrogate. There were still daily physical drills, surprise barracks inspections, and dismal food. On top of that, there were introductory classes for medical training like maths and sciences that were harder than anything Johnny had studied in school, and hours of homework. His birthday passed unnoted by anyone else; he didn’t bother to tell anyone about it. Later that weekend he would get a lovely care package from his Mum with cupcakes that he shared around.

But on his birthday proper, as he lay awake in the night trying not to listen to one of his roommates wanking under a blanket, he thought about how much his life had changed. He didn’t feel seventeen; he felt fifty. It was like a giant blade had fallen from the sky and cut his life in two the day that Harry pulled her magic trick of making all the family money vanish. On one side of the artificial divide: a fairly idyllic childhood, filled with loving parents, dreamy days of books of fantasy and science fiction, and the deep pine smell of his little tent. On the other side of Harry’s theft was adulthood, too soon and utterly unwelcome. His father didn’t make very much at his job in the forest service, nor did his mum pull in much dosh with her new job. Johnny was responsible now for keeping his family afloat. It was a heavy burden: one he shouldered with pride and without complaint, but one which weighed upon him nonetheless.

He supposed if he were honest with himself, he resented the detour his life had taken from a leisurely expected track of university, medical school, internship and residency and onto the harsh realities of Army life as a young recruit. This was not the life he had anticipated. And the fury at his sister for doing this to his family was eating him up inside. The only thing that seemed to help was physical exertion, so he became the best in the unit at all of the physical training. He held the base record for fastest 10k run in full pack; he beat everyone so consistently in sparring that he’d been banned from it. He could field-strip a gun in under ten minutes, and shooting was so easy for him that he’d been moved into sniper rifle training. How that fit in with his medic training, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think too much about it. He tried not to think too much about _anything_  any more. The idealistic, gentle-natured boy that he once had been was gone. He made up his mind that night not to look back on the person he used to be ever again.

* * *

_October 1991_

  
**“Joaquin. Thank you for meeting with me.”**

**“It is my pleasure, Mycroft. Have you been well?”**

**“Reasonably, my friend. And yourself?”**

**“Very well, very well, although I am worried about the effect of the increased sunlight on my children.”**  Joaquin the Seal Person had an annoying habit of referring to the animals under his care as “children.”

Mycroft held back a sigh. **“I have contacted you because I am concerned about Moriarty.”**

**“Ah, our strange colleague. What has he done now?”**

**“He brought an outsider into a campaign.”**

**“What?!”**  Joaquin looked genuinely distressed. **“Who is the interloper?”**

**“Do you know Moran of the Bear People?”**

**“I have heard of him. And what I have heard does not indicate that he should be part of the Council.”**

**“Quite right. I fear Moriarty must be disciplined. But beyond that, I am concerned at the breakdown of his ethics. Something has gone wrong if he is no longer adhering to the Sacred Directives.”**

Joaquin pondered this for a moment.

**“What do you think we should do?”**

**“I do not know yet, but I wanted to have someone else aware of the problem and thinking about it.”**

**“Next Moon we should bring Halifa and Mika into this discussion.”**

**“Yes, that is an excellent idea. I will contact them and speak with you then.”**

**“Take care, Mycroft!”**  Joaquin’s whiskers twitched as he gave Mycroft one of his large, optimistic smiles.

Mycroft sat back from the Pool. He had a flash of the familiar irritation at the necessity of waiting a month between conversations, but the work of the Council had always moved slowly and deliberately, so he took a deep breath and banished the irritation from his mind. It served no purpose; there was no other way to contact Council members. This was the way things were done.

* * *

  
Several kilometers away, Fawnlock sat with his back against a sturdy pine tree, listening to the troubles of one Meg Murray and her precocious younger brother and turning pages slowly in the moonlight.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, a promo for startswiththeridingcrop, who does excellent, _fast_ , affordable work and is taking [commissions](http://theridingcropsart.tumblr.com/post/97743392360/i-have-made-a-new-post-because-it-needed-revamped).
> 
> The book Fawnlock is now reading is of course [_The Wind in the Door_](http://www.worldcat.org/title/wind-in-the-door-madeleine-lengle/oclc/709787) by Madeleine L’Engle. 
> 
> As for Johnny’s military training: I know nothing of British military training other than what little I’ve gleaned from the interweb. Here’s where I looked up [Phase I training](http://www.armyrecruitpack.co.uk/phase-1-training/), which may have been a bit different back when Johnny was training (this is from 2014, he was training in 1991). In 2014, at least, anyone who joined up under the age of 17 went to Harrogate regardless of what their ultimate occupation would be in the Army. [Wikipedia indicates that after Harrogate](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selection_and_Training_in_the_British_Army), he would go to the [Defense Medical Services Training Centre](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defence_Medical_Services_Training_Centre) for Phase 2 RAMC-oriented training. When it comes to what would happen during Phase 2 training, I am, unfortunately, totally guessing. If anyone has more accurate knowledge, let me know and I’ll update the story!
> 
> And everlasting thanks to [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/pseuds/Dammit_Clint) who continues to provide free and expert beta assistance. This chapter underwent significant editing after she last saw it so the blame falls solely on me. Also thanks to [spudqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spudqueen/pseuds/spudqueen), who read this chapter and gives ongoing support, encouragement, and ideas for this story, and thanks to R, who not only listened to a mumbled read-aloud version of this story whilst he was trying to work but also helped me solve a major plot point for upcoming chapters.
> 
> I am, after initial posting of chapters 1-11, adding dates to all the chapters so that things are easier to follow (I hope)...which means that this chapter ended up skipping forward and backward a bit because I wrote myself into a corner. Ah well, the excitement of serial posting!


	12. La Bella Luna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft uses the Moon to Contact people and decide upon punishment for Moriarty's transgression. Fawnlock makes a major advance in his cultural acclimation. John and Fawnlock gaze up at the same moon on the same night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> International Animal-Person Speech continues to be delineated in **bold**.

_20 November 1991_

**“Joaquin. Joaquin, can you hear me?”**  Mycroft leaned closely over the Contact Pool. He could see the Seal Person’s outline, but it was fuzzy, and Joaquin’s voice faded in and out. This is what happened when he tried to contact someone the first night of the Moon. Technically, there are three nights for the full moon, but the first and last are not as strong, and consequently communication through the Contact Pool was iffy.

**“Mycr...can’t hear you very...did you want?”**

**“Joaquin, if you can hear me, I will be contacting Halifa and Mika tomorrow. I am going to suggest that we cut off Moriarty’s power for six months.”**

**“...do what to Moriarty? It’s hard to...coming through...static…”**

**“Cut off power for six months!”**  Mycroft found himself shouting and flushed. This was quite undignified.

**“...six months...little drastic?”**

**“I am not sure what else to do to get the message across, Joaquin. Do you have any suggestions?”**

**“We should…”**  Joaquin’s image blurred and vanished as the Pool cleared.

 _Dammit,_ thought Mycroft. Oh well, Joaquin didn’t usually have very inspired ideas anyway. He was sure Joaquin would back up whatever they decided the next night.

* * *

  
“Fawnlock, what happened to your antler?”

Fawnlock sighed heavily. Didn’t these humans know _anything_?

“It’s winter, Librarian. The antlers have served their purpose. I remove them by bashing my head against trees. I am eager to be rid of the remaining monstrosity, but it has not responded to my efforts yet.”

Lestrade was still amazed at Fawnlock’s speech. In the short span of three months, he had gone from stammering about as well as a human toddler to sounding like he had gone to the poshest boarding school and straight to uni. He had begun demanding that Lestrade bring him stacks of college-level textbooks. At first, Lestrade had not believed that the deer boy could possibly understand them; it wasn’t until he started quizzing Fawnlock (for a lark) on a chemistry text that Fawnlock proved he had absorbed and was surpassing the level of the books brought to him.

Lestrade thought briefly of _Flowers for Algernon_ , then pushed that depressing image out of his head. Fawnlock was what, thirty-two? Clearly he was quite intelligent and had been fluent in his own language; he simply needed a bit of ramp-up to become conversant in English. It seemed as though his brain was absorbing new ideas like a sponge.

Fawnlock interrupted his musing. “When the other antler is off, I am coming to live in town,” he announced grandly.

“You are, are you? Easier access to the library, for sure.”

“Quite. And you must find me a lab where I can practice chemistry. I am certain I will be proficient at the work.”

“Oh, I must, must I?”

“Yes. And I will be living at your house.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Problem?”

“Yes, _problem_! I am a bachelor, Fawnlock! In a bachelor’s house! I do not have room for the likes of you.”

“Of course you do. You have a spare bedroom that you intended to remodel into an office but never completed due to your extensive hours at the library and your propensity for watching sport on the ‘tellie’ in your little free time.”

Lestrade sighed. He still wasn’t used to how Fawnlock did this sort of mind-reading, fortune-telling thing he did, but he had been doing it for a month now and had read Lestrade’s own life to him backwards and forwards. Fawnlock said it was entirely from “deduction” and explained several, sometimes embarrassing, deductions with threads on his pants or crumbs in his scarf or other ridiculously small “clues,” and Lestrade had made his peace with it.

“Once I remove this antler, I shall move in. I shall require some blankets, and I would like to try out a pillow. I will need an identity so that I can obtain a library card and, presumably, some sort of access card to allow me into the lab that you are going to find me. You will need to stock vegetarian comestibles for me; Deer People do not eat meat.”

_‘Comestibles’? Two months ago he could barely say ‘food’._

“I don’t think any of that’s going to happen, Fawnlock. You’ve been fine out here in the forest for years, and I’ve been fine in my little house, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

By the next weekend, Fawnlock was wearing the hat that he had been wearing when Lestrade had first met him. He wore it while he slept in Lestrade’s “office” in a bed purchased at a tag sale, on a new mattress, with the fluffiest pillow on the market. Lestrade still wasn’t quite sure how it had happened.

“You live in my house, you live by my rules,” Lestrade bellowed the first morning after he found Fawnlock’s “business” just outside the back door. “You will learn to use an indoor toilet!”

“Waste of time!” yelled Fawnlock back, munching on a handful of dry granola. He picked out a raisin and tried it separately, considering and then nodding to himself before tipping the rest of the handful into his mouth (mostly). A small circle of dropped granola was growing around him on the floor.

“Non-negotiable, you disgusting slob!”

Lestrade won that argument, but only after he checked out several advanced texts on the effect of hygiene on modern life expectancy, along a medical book with really graphic pictures of such things as the result of an _E. coli_  infection (what were they doing with that book in the public library, anyway?) and explained, in repulsive detail, what could happen if humans did what Fawnlock was doing. When Fawnlock understood, he laughed an insultingly long time but finally acquiesced.

The process of teaching him the mechanics of using a loo was best forgotten by all.

Next week, Lestrade hoped to tackle the benefits of the modern shower stall.

* * *

  
_21 November 1991_

**“Mika, is that you?”**  Mycroft peered into the pool as an image came into focus. A beautiful woman’s face appeared with big black eyes, tiny black ears, and sharp features— _upside down_. **“Mika, for goddess’ sake, would you please sit right-side up for this conversation?”**

The Flying Fox Person chuckled and her image moved until her orientation matched Mycroft’s.

**“All a matter of perspective, Mycroft dear.”**

**“Now, hold please, we need to get Halifa into this. Halifa? Can you hear me?”**

This was why Mycroft almost never spoke to more than one Magic Person at a time. It was nearly impossible to make the logistics work out.

 **“I am here, Mycroft,”**  Halifa nearly purred, and her image flickered to replace that of Mika’s. Her tawny ears sported the tufts of a caracal and she, like Joaquin, had whiskers, but hers were a Cat Person’s whiskers. Her dark skin shone in the moonlight.

 **“Can you hear each other, Halifa, Mika?”**  

Both answered yes at the same time and the images rippled in the pool, providing a headache-inducing double image for a few moments.

 **“I need your agreement. Moriarty broke the Sacred Directives and brought Moran, a Bear Person, into our Kuwaiti retribution scheme. I must punish him. I thought a six-month ban on his use of the Power would be appropriate. Do you agree?** ” Mycroft kept it short and simple, dispensing with the customary mannerly exchange of how everyone was doing and how loved ones were doing and how each participant’s respective Peoples were doing and multiple other topics that could take several hours. The difficulty of multi-Person communication demanded brevity.

There was a pause where he saw neither Person and worried that perhaps he had actually lost the communication, when finally Halifa spoke up and appeared in the Pool.

**“That seems rather harsh, Mycroft. Both his action** **and** **your response. Are you not afraid that doing so would alienate him?”**

**“That is a risk, but we cannot tolerate such dereliction of duty. Worse, he has opened our Council to a great deal of danger if Moran cannot be trusted. And while he is being punished, he cannot harm us.”**

**“What about his friends?”** asked Mika. **“There might be retaliation from them.”**

 **“I do not believe Moriarty has true friends, only associates. I am counting on the other People to understand the need for this punishment and to support the protection of the Directives and the sovereignty of This Regime.”**  He saw Halifa sigh because her sigh was so heavy it was audible, but he ignored it; he was using the somewhat self-aggrandizing language deliberately. In an unprecedented event such as this, the fact that he held the seat of the Power was important to emphasize.

 **“We trust you, Mycroft, implicitly. You have our support,”**  Mika said stolidly.

 **“Indeed, Mycroft. And let us know if you need any help from us. Only, next time, please call just one of us at a time. This format is giving me a headache.”** Halifa dramatically rubbed her ears, pulling them forward, and Mika laughed, making the images ripple again on Mycroft’s Pool.

 **“Thank you both for your support. Good Interval to you both.”**  Mycroft quickly shut down the communication and rubbed his own head ruefully. Well, he had the agreement of three of the principles, so he could go ahead and prepare the ceremony. Tomorrow he would let his lieutenants know; they could make it work on the last night of this Moon. No use waiting any longer.

* * *

  
_March 1992_

Spring was unfolding across England when John took a break one warm evening from his bedpan duty to stand outside the hospital, drinking a tepid tea. He could smell early-season flowers on the air and for a moment, his heart quickened as he remembered what spring was like at home. He looked up at the waning moon and thought sadly about his tent out back...about lying out there some nights when he had no visitors but had sensed a benevolent presence in the forest and had felt a longing for something unnameable. He shook his head after a few minutes. Those thoughts were best left in the past. Better get back up to his job and emptying the hazardous materials bins before they overflowed; Saturday nights were busy ones on the ward.

Hundreds of kilometres away, Fawnlock gazed at the moon through the open window in his new bedroom. He rubbed thoughtfully at the hated nubs of new antlers. He really would have to come up with some formula to keep them from growing anew each year. A breeze swept in, bringing with it the scent of primroses. Fawnlock found himself thinking about last spring, about sitting at the edge of a clearing and watching a certain boy gaze up at the moon. Then he thought about that same boy doing things behind the canvas of what he now knew was called a tent, noisy things with other humans that made Fawnlock feel more alone than he’d ever felt. He looked down from the window and went back to studying the acid solutions outlined in the most recent issue of the Royal Society of Chemistry’s “Analyst” that the Lyndhurst Public Library had (several years old; he really needed a university connection), and he stopped thinking about primroses and human boys’ backyards.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for my beta [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/pseuds/Dammit_Clint) who turned this chapter around on a dime (if a dime is a mere day or two after the end of her first semester whoo!). Hooray also for [spudqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spudqueen/pseuds/spudqueen) and my partner R who continue to listen to my whining about this story and give me encouragement and fantastic ideas. Take a look at spudqueen's fancy Old West Mystrade [Under the Quicksilver Star](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2484857/chapters/5513570)!


	13. Lab Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Private John is an orderly; Fawnlock gains access to a lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, this story has been on hiatus due to real-life issues; I cannot promise when the next update will be, but I can assure you that it is not abandoned; the rest of the story has been outlined. Big heartfelt thanks to those readers who hang in there!)

John set his middle-of-the-night lunch tray down on the long, laminated table and stretched, reaching his arms high and then bending side-to-side. He didn’t mind the night shift so much. It was a bit quieter, usually, and he could get some studying in. He wouldn’t be taking any serious medical classes for some time—the Army insisted that would-be military doctors go through the equivalent of university first—but it couldn’t hurt to start memorizing anatomy now. He’d heard that it was a shocker course for new medical students, trying to ingest all that information in a very short period of time; the more he studied anatomy now, the easier it would be when he had four or five other medical classes to pass.  
  
He slid out the plastic chair with an unpleasant screech and sat, trying to be thankful that the food was hot, anyway. With the hospital as part of the base, the canteen stayed open round the clock. Mess was palatable, if not particularly inspiring. He was sawing through some gristly fried steak when someone sat down opposite him with an unholy clatter. There was banging and sighing and grumbling, and he looked up to see a woman in full camo glaring at her meal.  
  
“I know I should be grateful,” she said, as if challenging him to argue. “But it is not as if they are even trying to provide remotely healthy options. I get a better meal eating MREs in the field, for Christ’s sake. This is _bullshit_.” She stabbed a gray Brussels sprout savagely with her fork, held it in front of her critical gaze, cautiously sniffed it, and finally threw it, fork embedded, across the room.  
  
John stared at her with wide eyes. She looked back at him, startled, and they both burst out laughing at the same time.  
  
“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, it’s just been a really fucking bad week and tonight was the fucking worst and that fucking piece of vegetable _shite_  was the cherry on the top.”  
  
“Not a happy shift, was it?”  
  
“You could say that.” She reached a hand over the table. “Captain McIntyre. My dad was American, mum was Korean.”  
  
“I didn’t—”  
  
“I know you didn’t, but then you’d be trying to figure out how to ask about the difference between the looks and the name politely and it’s distracting and a waste of time. Might as well be up-front, right? And you are…?”  
  
“Private John Watson, ma’am.” John shook her hand and was pleased to find her grip firm but not bruising. Some male officers seemed to think that crushing his hand bones together demonstrated they had the bigger dicks.  
  
“Orderly on the sixth floor, yeah?”  
  
John nodded and took a bite of his reconstituted potato mash.  
  
“Seen you around. Wanna be a medic?”  
  
“Hoping for doctor, actually.” John squinted at the insignia on the captain’s collar. “...which you are, aren’t you?”  
  
She chuckled darkly. “Ask me again in a month. Tonight I feel like you orderlies do more for medicine than I do.” Seeing John’s puzzled expression, she sighed.  
  
“I lost one tonight. And I shouldn’t have. _Fuck_.” She slammed her hand on the table. The trays jumped and their glasses rattled; the few other people in the canteen looked around. John just kept eating.  
  
“I bet he—or she—wouldn’t have made it to tonight without you though, eh?” he said quietly.  
  
“There was no reason for it. None. I should’ve been able to…” She trailed off, looking over his shoulder at nothing.  
  
John let the silence go for a bit. Then he shrugged mentally, never one to let an opportunity go by (the riskier, the better).  
  
“Got any advice for an orderly who wants to become a doctor?”  
  
“Go do something else, if you value your sanity.”  
  
He looked at her calmly until she relented.  
  
“Yeah, I know. It’s the only thing you want to do, right? Feel a calling, want to help, be a service, blah blah blah.” She sighed. “Study hard, and pay attention on shift. Pay _close_  attention. Watch as many procedures as you can and ask yourself if you have the stomach for it, and don’t lie to yourself, won’t do you or anyone else any good. Keep asking questions. Talk to the doctors. Make a pain of yourself.”  
  
John nodded.  
  
“And if you finish the pre-med studies, and still want to enter this motherfucking godforsaken profession, come talk to me. And until then, get out of my face, private.” She sounded harsh, but John caught a bit of a spark in her eye, like she was looking at a kindred spirit. He smiled and stood up.  
  
“Thank you for the advice, ma’am. I’ll see you in three years.” He saluted and picked up his tray to drop it at the wash station.  
  
It wasn’t three years till he saw her, though. He began to notice her around the hospital at night. Usually she was far too busy to look up from her work, but one evening she was hurrying down the hall with a white coat over her uniform, a clipboard in her hand, and he stood up from where he’d been mopping and saluted. She looked over and gave him a wink, never breaking stride.  
  


* * *

  
“Hey, Greg.” The desk sergeant smiled as the librarian strode in. A tall, thin young man wearing a knit cap was close on Greg’s heels. “How’s it hanging?”  
  
“Charming as always, Sergeant Donovan,” he responded, but Greg was grinning at her. Fawnlock wondered what was hanging and why Greg didn’t report its state to her.  
  
“This is the young man I was telling you about. Is Ms. Hooper here?”  
  
“Every day like clockwork, that girl is. You sure you want to go down there? Gets pretty grotty, y’know.”  
  
“We’re certain,” Fawnlock interrupted. “Where is the door?”  
  
Sally pointed wordlessly at a doorway past the desk marked “LG”. Fawnlock strode to it and was down the stairs before Greg took a step. He burst through the door at the bottom and stopped short, staring about in awe.  
  
He was in a laboratory. There were three shiny metal-topped tables in the middle of the room, surrounded by shallow gutters; the tables were slightly larger than the dimensions of the average human. Gleaming metal counters wrapped around three sides of the room, with metal cabinets hung above. The fourth wall was filled with three floor-to-ceiling polished steel doors. The counters held glass containers in various shapes and sizes; he also spied two instruments that matched the “microscope” pictures he’d seen in books. The room smelled of a sharp chemical that he couldn’t identify, underlaid with a faint sickly sweet smell of decomposition. Fawnlock was unaware that his face held an intense expression of delight, and he unknowingly let out a small whimper.  
  
“Oh, hi, you must be, uh, Fawnlock? Is that what Greg said? You’re here to practice chemistry?” A human woman wearing a white overcoat appeared in front of him; he hadn’t noticed her in his ecstatic scan of this wonderful room of possibilities. Her long, glossy brown hair distracted him for a moment, but he quickly lost interest in that and began to open cabinets, noting the contents and nodding to himself happily.  
  
“Hey, Molly. Sorry about that, he’s wiley. Have you been introduced?”  
  
“Uh, sort of? Hi Greg! He’s, uh, he seems to like it here?” Molly blushed and glanced at the floor.  
  
Greg laughed sharply. “He’s been talking about nothing but this for weeks. You’re a good egg to let him in here. Don’t be afraid to scold him, he’s a klutz.”  
  
“On the contrary, Lestrade. With items that matter, I am exceedingly deft,” Fawnlock pronounced, his back to the two as he peered into the chemicals cabinet. Greg rolled his eyes.  
  
“Are you sure it’s ok if he works in here? He can be a right pillock, actually, but he’s bright and needs something to occupy his mind.”  
  
“Of course, it’s usually pretty quiet down here. But if he hasn’t worked with chemicals before, shouldn’t I help him?”  
  
Fawnlock whipped around and fixed a glare on her. “I may not have done the practice, but I am fully versed in the theory and correct procedures. I need freedom to run my experiments.”  
  
“Uh, okay,” Molly said, just as Greg chided “Fawnlock! Be nice!” Fawnlock rolled his eyes and went back to exploring, pulling down on the handle of one of the floor-to-ceiling doors at the back. It opened to a refrigerated room that was empty. He shut that carefully and opened the next, which revealed a sheet draped over something on a table with wheels.  
  
“Wait, we’re not supposed to let civilians in there—” Molly said, but Fawnlock was already pulling back the sheet. Underneath was the slightly blue body of an elderly man, face slack in death. Fawnlock leaned close and sniffed, twitching his nose, and proceeded to look closely at everything he could see until Greg pulled him back and Molly re-covered the corpse.  
  
“I’m sorry, I cannot let you near the bodies. That’s the law.”  
  
Greg manhandled Fawnlock back into the lab and Molly shut the door firmly.  
  
“When can he start using the lab?” Greg asked, worried that Molly would ban his charge completely for such asinine behaviour.  
  
“I must begin _now_ ,” Fawnlock said urgently.  
  
“Um...I guess he can start today? I’ve already processed Mr. Johnson, just waiting for the funeral home to come get him, so he won’t be in the way of anything.”  
  
Fawnlock immediately began gathering bottles from the chemical cupboard and laying them out on the counter below. Greg watched him and bit his lip. Quietly, he murmured to Molly,  
  
“You sure about this? He gives you any guff, you just kick him out.”  
  
Molly gave him a big, artificial smile. “Sure! I’m sure we’ll get along just fine. It’s okay.”  
  
“Of course it’s okay, Lestrade. You may leave now. There is work to be done.”  
  
Greg sighed and with a last, lingering look at Molly, turned to ascend the stairs. Fawnlock also sighed, albeit internally. For all his bluster, he had been quite worried that the humans would not allow him access to this palace of science. There was a tiny smile on his face as he started up the Bunsen burner, just the way the textbook said to.  
  


* * *

  
John wasn’t getting much sleep. He had classes during the day: Algebra, Intro to Computer Programming, Chemistry, and, inexplicably, English. He wasn’t sure what reading Louisa May Alcott had to do with medicine, but it was a mandatory class, so he suffered it with as much good grace as he could muster. Each of those classes had homework, and there was physical training to complete in the afternoons, and he had volunteered to work a six-hour shift five nights a week. His hospital shifts were intensely physical; as an orderly he mopped and scrubbed, lifted patients, moved boxes of supplies and heavy machinery for the nurses, and basically did any scut work anyone else didn’t want to do.  
  
John was having the time of his life.  
  
He collapsed on his cot in the early morning hours completely wrung-out, falling asleep almost instantly, and five hours later hopped up ready to face the day. He was excused from morning reveille due to his late-night post; none of the other privates in Phase 2 were working outside the classes and PT, but he was determined to learn medicine as quickly as he could, and lowly as his orderly chores were, he felt he was becoming steeped in hospital culture and routine and was certain that it could only speed him along on his journey to become a doctor.  
  
The lieutenant overseeing his company never questioned whether it was in Private Watson’s best interests to be pushing himself so hard. The one time John’s situation came to his attention was when he was asked to sign off on Watson’s continued orderly service after six months, and a faint thought went through his head about the Army getting their money’s worth out of the boy. The lieutenant had over 100 souls in his company and had bigger problems than worrying about overachievers who kept their noses clean and did everything that was asked of them.  
  
About two months after John met Captain McIntyre in the canteen, she sat down across from him on his 0200 lunch hour.  
  
“Fucking Brussles sprouts again. What is fucking wrong with this kitchen.” She shoved the tray away from herself, pulled out a flask, and tipped it into the can of soda in front of her. “How are you holding up, Private Go-Getter? You any closer to that medical degree?”  
  
John grinned as he shoveled food in. He was eating more than he ever had in his life; his schedule led his body to demand 4000 to 5000 calories to keep up.  
  
“ _Day by Day the Army Way! Huzzah!_ ” John responded through a mouthful of bread.  
  
“ _Huzzah_ , soldier!” McIntyre responded, a bit sardonically. She took a long pull of her doctored soda. “Seen any good procedures? And by good I mean absolutely disgusting, blood everywhere, guts on the floor, eyeballs hanging out.”  
  
“No guts on the floor, ma’am, not on my watch,” John responded, grinning, and took a drink from one of his three glasses of milk. “Seriously though, yeah, I’ve seen some stuff now. Doesn’t bother me.”  
  
“Yeah, you think you’ve ‘seen some stuff’. Get on the front lines, then tell me you’ve ‘seen some stuff.’ Good to hear you’re not squeamish, though.” She regarded him thoughtfully as he proceeded to make his way methodically through one tray and moved on to the next.  
  
“You wanna really see some stuff, soldier?”  
  
John nodded vigorously, his mouth full.  
  
“You get any leave?”  
  
“Next Sunday, ma’am, all day. Was gonna do some range practice.”  
  
“How about you come to clinic hours with me. I do some volunteering at a place in town, they’re a little short-staffed at the moment. Be at the base welcome sign, 0600. That too early for you?”  
  
“No ma’am!”  
  
She grimaced slightly at his utterly happy expression. “Yeah, you may regret that. I’ll see you then, soldier. Till then, _Clean It Up Right, Each and Every Night_.”  
  
John was a little surprised that she knew the orderlies’ private motto. “Yes ma’am! _When You Vomit, Our Mops Are On It_ ,” he responded.  
  
McIntyre grinned, shook her head, and headed to the exit with her soda can, filling it again from the flask.  
  


* * *

  
“What’s that?” Fawnlock asked the minute he entered the lab. A young boy’s body was laid out on one of the tables in the middle of the room; Molly had the chest open and was poking around inside with instruments. A tape recorder was running next to her.  
  
“Oh, hi, Fawnlock. You can’t come over here, this is an autopsy.”  
  
“I shan’t be in the way,” he stated definitively and immediately came over to watch what she was doing.  
  
Molly didn’t look up. She didn’t know how to deal with Fawnlock. He came to the lab _every day_ , arriving exactly one minute after she opened it and not leaving until she forced him out in the evening. He treated her like an assistant, ordering her to hand him things and procure chemicals and demanding that she explain things to him.  
  
It wasn’t that she had that much else to do. In fact, before he had started invading the lab on a daily basis, she had been bored, reading medical journals and running little experiments of her own. She liked to investigate nature, collecting pond water and cataloguing the creatures that swam in the microscopic view, or putting autumn leaves through the spectrometer.  
  
So it wasn’t like he got in the way, exactly. It was more that he sort of took up the whole room, with his presence and his voice and his handsome, if oddly coloured, face, and his darn patronising attitude and she was getting tired of it, really she was. And now she had an honest-to-God body to take care of, and she was very possessive of her dead bodies; she knew all of them from the town and fancied herself a bit of a guardian for them until they were safely ensconced in their final quiet casket homes.  
  
Fawnlock reached out a hand.  
  
“DO. NOT. TOUCH.”  
  
Fawnlock looked up at her, surprised, and she glared back at him. Immediately she wanted to back down— _Don’t make a scene, Molly, it’s dangerous, shh, don’t stand out_ —but she forced herself to stay firm. After a moment, Fawnlock’s eyebrows rose, and he almost looked...pleased?  
  
“Explain what you are doing, then. Leave nothing out.”  
  
Molly sighed. At least she won the “touch the corpse” battle.  
  
“This is Michael Charing. He had an accident with his bicycle yesterday and was brought in last night from the hospital.”  
  
Fawnlock moved to look at the boy’s face, then examined—without touching—every inch of the boy’s body, his face very close to the skin.  
  
“His parents wanted an autopsy. They said he was very good at riding and don’t understand how he ended up in the ditch. I don’t think there’s anything to find—it was raining and I think he just took a spill the wrong way—but I’m still having a look ‘round for them.  
  
“We always start in the chest cavity. Heart problems are the leading cause of accidental death. I’m opening his heart right now, if you want to see.”  
  
Fawnlock immediately moved from where he was sniffing the toes back to stand opposite Molly, across the table, and he leaned in as far as he could without impeding her instruments.  
  
“This is the vena cava, and if we open it up…” Molly sliced very precisely and delicately, “...you can see the sinoatrial node. That’s what regulates the heartbeat. The hypothalamus, in the brain, sends the signal to this nerve bundle, and that causes the rest of the heart to beat.” She glanced up to see Fawnlock looking lost. It was a new look on him, one that gave her a touch of confidence.  
  
“You know that the heart beats, right?” she said.  
  
“This thing...’beats’?”  
  
“Yes. It contracts about 60-70 times a minute, pushing blood to the lungs and, once it’s oxygenated, to the rest of the body through the arteries. The blood returns to the heart through the veins.” She pointed out an artery and a vein as she spoke.  
  
“All humans have this?”  
  
“All _animals_  have a heart. You’ve noticed your heartbeat, right?” When Fawnlock stared at her blankly, she pointed to his neck. Unfortunately, she was holding a scalpel in that hand, and he stepped back a little. She giggled, embarrassed, and pointed instead to her own neck where the pulse was most evident. “There, if you put your finger there you can feel the pulse of your blood through your carotid artery.”  
  
Greg had explained, when this arrangement had started, that Fawnlock was self-taught and might be lacking in some general knowledge. Something about his parents being dead and he and his brother being on their own; somehow they had never ended up in school. So she wasn’t completely surprised to find that he didn’t seem to know anything about biology or anatomy; he seemed to have focused entirely on chemistry to the exclusion of all other fields of study.  
  
She realized she had an opportunity to hold this over his head, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to make someone feel bad for wanting to learn.  
  
Fawnlock pressed his fingertips to his neck.  
  
“Feel around a bit, push a little. You should feel a pulse, a rhythmic movement under your fingers.”  
  
Fawnlock’s eyes went wide. He looked back down at the partially dissected heart in front of him.  
  
“I have one of these inside me?” he asked. His usual condescending tone was absent; his eyes were bright, intent.  
  
“We all do. Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”  
  
Fawnlock did not deign to reply, but he watched the rest of the heart dissection with rapt attention. Molly smiled to herself. It was always magical to be present when someone learned something, especially something that changed their worldview.  
  


* * *

  
“Ready?” Captain McIntyre asked on a clear Sunday morning, pulling up to the RAMCTC welcome sign.  
  
“Ready, willing, and able!” John responded and hopped in the passenger side of the Jeep.  
  


* * *

  
“He won’t get away with this,” Moriarty muttered, followed by a high, laughing cry of frustration.  
  
“How are you going to stop him?” the Addler asked, lounging against a rock in the moonlight, examining her nails.  
  
“Not your problem, snakey. You just carry out your orders when I give them to you.” He stomped over to the thin trunk of a tall tree and shook it, howling up at the sky. “You will be _paid back_ , Mycroft! PAID BACK!”  
  
The Addler appeared to ignore him, but she knew Moriarty was very, very dangerous, and she resolved to keep all her options open.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [LG: lower ground, or basement](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fforum.wordreference.com%2Fshowthread.php%3Ft%3D1870787&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNHh7mHIyhw8LDeCXJkl1y-pRk0-FQ)  
>   
>  Thanks as always to my beta, [Dammit_Clint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Clint/pseuds/Dammit_Clint); as usual I messed around with the chapter after she cleaned it up, so any mistakes you find are, of course, my own. Thanks also to my writing partner [spudqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spudqueen/pseuds/spudqueen)!  
>   
> Caveats: I know nothing about the RAMC, how recruits are trained, the university system in England, mortuary science, and almost nothing about anatomy. Concrit welcome at daltong@digitalkingdom.org!  
> 


End file.
